


Haiku! (God Bless You)

by SBG



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6718861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SBG/pseuds/SBG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is afflicted<br/>Completely nonsensical<br/>Sam interprets all</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is old. Quite old. Like, I think neither of them had even died once yet old. I'm in the process of uploading some of my personal fav, longer SPN stories here for posterity. Just didn't want anyone to think I was passing this off as something it isn't. :)

“The cow is noble, and good with extra onions; I like it bloody.”

Sam Winchester didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. He was dangerously close to both, but the latter only a direct result of the former. None of this was exactly Dean’s fault, but that didn’t make it any _less_ funny. He watched with misleading serenity as his brother’s jaw muscles worked like crazy and a vein popped out on his forehead from the apparent strain. _Everything is fun and games until someone has an aneurysm_ , he thought.

“The air in springtime, it is filled with the sweet scent,” Dean continued, a dull red creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. He plopped the menu down, sliding it to the edge of the table and finished, “Of cherry blossoms.”

“Say what now, hon?” Maxine, the waitress, asked, appearing both dumbfounded and horrified. She held the pencil mid-air, as if uncertain how to proceed.

Not that Sam could blame her.

“He’ll have a burger with lots of onions, rare. And he’ll also have the cherry pie for dessert,” Sam interpreted. It was an educated guess, really, but he was getting good at this. He quirked an eyebrow at his brother, barely biting back a shit-eating grin. “Probably with ice cream. Do you want ice cream, Dean?”

“Nothing would delight, my tongue like vanilla bean – yes, yes to ice cream.” Dean rested his arms on the table, bending to thump his forehead on them, the picture of abject misery. 

“Ooookay.” Maxine scribbled on her pad, giving the top of Dean’s head a long, pitying look before she turned to Sam. She leaned slightly, speaking out of one side of her mouth, “Is he like the _Rain Man_ or something?”

“Or something.”

“Toothpicks fall to floor, I cannot count them at all,” Dean said, voice muffled but cranky. “Ask and I will maim.”

Since Dean couldn’t see, Sam gave Maxine a wide, bright smile. It was enough to distract from the (unbeknownst to her) very real threat to her health and well-being. No need for them to bring any additional attention onto themselves. He suspected his brother regretted his own suggestion to get food, but Dean’s loss was Sam’s gain. He only wished he could manage to get Dean waxing poetic recorded somehow. Unfortunately, Dean thwarted his every attempt. Sam figured it was because the first thing Dean would have thought of if their roles were reversed was documenting it and then sharing with any and everyone. His brother knew almost every trick in the prank book. 

“And what about you, sweetie?” Maxine asked, now trying not to stare at Dean. She mostly failed, a mix of fascination and awe alternating on her features. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have the chicken salad sandwich, please, with the soup of the day,” Sam said, keeping his smile cheerful. “Thanks.”

Maxine scooped up the menus, mouthing _‘Is he okay?’_ and waiting for an affirmative before heading toward the kitchen. She muttered something about some days being weirder than others.

Now that he could relate to. Their lives were strange anyway, but this latest thing was bordering on ridiculous. All right, it had long passed ridiculous. He’d only been away a few too-short years, but he hadn’t missed the insanity. Or the lying, cheating, stealing and grave-digging. 

And while it was never going to stop being about fifteen different kinds of hilarious, Dean’s weird predicament was also slowing them down. His brother might as well be speaking like Yoda, which left most of the personal interaction up to him. Probably all from now on, judging by Dean’s state of aggravation at trying to order dinner, which, yes, Sam could’ve stepped up and prevented. Maybe next time. If they ever figured out how to handle the bigger issue, Sam had to hope it wasn’t going to involve any exorcisms or spoken rites. It wasn’t like Dean could help with that while he was stuck spouting baffling haiku. 

But, hey, at least they were on the right track now, and that it wasn’t what he’d initially thought it was. That was a huge relief to him on a personal level. 

“She’s gone,” Sam said, wiping his expression clear of all humor. “It’s safe to come out.”

In response, Dean jostled his head, pulling his right hand from under it to give Sam a one-fingered-salute. 

“Hey man, you were the one who wanted a dinner break. Didn’t I offer to bring something in again? I could have sworn I did. After what happened at the library, I would have thought you’d jump on the slave labor idea to avoid seeing people.”

Dean added his left middle finger to the salute, resting his forehead on the table instead. “You try to be nice, but I know what’s going on. Disingenuous.”

Wow, not only was that one not very existential, but Dean Winchester had uttered a five-syllable word. Maybe this all wasn’t really a curse but a secret blessing, Dean showing the brains Sam knew he had. He decided it would be in his best interest not to suggest that out loud to his miserable brother. Of course, he also couldn’t really deny that Dean was partly right. He was, in fact, enjoying himself at Dean’s expense. So sue him, he was taking advantage of a rare opportunity. He was only human.

“Like you wouldn’t be enjoying every minute of this if it were me,” Sam said with a soft snort. He glanced around the restaurant, spotting a few recognizable faces. He nodded at Dr. Markinson staring at them from a nearby booth. He smiled at the man, then looked back to his brother. “But you gotta calm down, Dean. I know you’re frustrated, but as long as you stay cool people are just going to think you’re quiet, maybe a little weird. That’s not too far off from the truth anyway.”

Finally sitting up, Dean gave Sam a look that would have killed anyone else. His lips were pressed together, as if to keep himself from speaking any more barely understandable poetry. Actually, that was exactly what Dean was doing. He picked up the plastic dessert menu holder, flipping through each page like it was the most important and fascinating thing on the planet. 

It was going to get real lonely real fast, Sam realized with a pang, if Dean truly stopped talking to him until this was over. He didn’t like that thought, both for what it meant about his life now and his life as it had been only a few months back. He’d left his friends easily enough, but Dean he’d miss. Dean he _had_ missed. He frowned and said the only thing he could to alleviate the sudden darkness of his thoughts.

“And I’ll bet _now_ you wish Dad had given us more than latitude and longitude.”

Abusive haiku was not forthcoming, but Dean chucked the dessert menu at him. It caught him on the left cheekbone. He supposed that meant he’d just taken a proverbial pie to the face.

&-&-&

Two days earlier

“I don’t suppose he gave us anything besides coordinates,” Sam said, the bitterness in his voice undisguised. “Not that he ever does.”

It had taken longer than Dean thought it would. They’d been on the road a good two hours, with nothing for Sam to do but sit and stew about that age-old battle of his with Dad. He let out a wordless huff, watching the scenery zoom by and listening to the sound of the tires thrum and thump across a patchy stretch of highway.

“He doesn’t need to give us more than that, Sam,” he said, and he knew he sounded bitter himself. “Why do you always have to start in with this? If Dad says we should go, then there’s something there to hunt. Period.”

“Actually, I don’t doubt that, Dean.”

Without even looking, Dean knew Sam was stubbornly jutting out his chin. It was classic Sam and no wonder the kid drove Dad nuts by being himself. But Dean wouldn’t trade this for anything, pain in the ass little brother and all.

“If he wouldn’t be so damned vague all the time…” Sam paused, sighing. “What I’m saying is if he’d give more details and fewer cryptic messages we could do whatever he wants us to do better.”

The _so we can get back to finding him and finding the thing that screwed up our lives_ remained unspoken, but Dean also knew that was there as surely as the sour look on Sam’s face. He didn’t want to agree with Sam on this, his own stubborn streak rearing its head, but he couldn’t disagree, either. He wasn’t sure why Dad insisted on giving them so little to work with, but he chose to read it as trust. He was afraid if he didn’t, he’d start doubting. Like Sam did, except now he wasn’t even sure if doubting was what Sam did. Sam simply wanted to know _everything_.

“Dad knows we can handle it.”

“Dad knows _you_ can handle it.”

Dean had known it would get like this again with Sam, but he thought with Dad off who-the-hell-knew-where it wouldn’t be as bad. How much of a chump was he that he’d take his brother bitching and moaning constantly over the freedom, the loneliness, of hunting on his own. Especially knowing Sam did not want to be there with him. Dean was a headcase, afraid to be who he was. The more time he spent with Sam the more he started to wonder if he knew who he was, if he was anyone at all.

“Dad has never doubted your abilities, Sam, just your commitment.”

“Well, I’m committed now, aren’t I?” Sam muttered.

Damnit. Sam was talking about involuntary commitment, like he was sitting over there in a straitjacket, only there because his life had been ripped away from him. Dean didn’t know how to even approach that. They stopped talking. After a few minutes, Dean thought he might as well be driving alone anyway. He turned up the music he knew his brother either didn’t get or hated outright. Frankly, he was beyond caring about Sam’s creature comforts. He would do anything for Sam except pussify his taste in music. 

The coordinates Dad had texted him were just outside of Moab, Utah. They’d lost wireless connectivity a while back, when they’d ditched any sign of civilization, and so didn’t know what they were getting themselves into yet. There was nothing in the journal. For the millionth time, Dean wondered why so many supernatural events tended to hit small towns more than big ones, though that was based on casual observation. Geek Boy slouched over there would tell him the occurrences were easier to establish a pattern from because of the small population, not that bad things happened more often in the boonies. He really wasn’t interested in heavy debate or lecture, now or ever. Sam was probably right, anyway, but like the supernatural, it would be easier for them to blend in a larger city.

The car alone made them conspicuous in any location. Dean knew the smart move would be to ditch her for a less noticeable vehicle, but he could not give up the Impala. Now that Dad had gone AWOL on him, the car was the only constant in his life. Sam almost was, but not quite yet – he still had that cut-and-run threat look about him half the time. No, keeping the car might increase their chances of being spotted or remembered but it was a risk he was willing to take. In the grand scheme, it was low on the list of concerns. 

As they rolled into town, he assessed his surroundings. All in all, Moab looked like every town they’d ever stopped in, the typical façade of _normal_ disguising something deeper, uglier. Whatever it might be. As highway 191 turned gradually into Main Street, Dean could practically feel the dust from the surrounding desert settling into every crack in the car. Sure enough, the rumble of the Impala’s engine drew looks that a frigging Toyota Prius like Sam probably wanted to drive would never get. Still, he noted several early model cars parked in front of storefronts. An ’81 Monte Carlo, white under a thick layer of dust, a red ’79 Cordoba. Not that any old junker could hold a candle to his baby. 

“There looks good,” Sam said, pointing. “Sign says Wi-Fi.”

With a mumble of agreement, Dean pulled the car into the parking lot of The Virginian Motel. It was in the center of town but it looked unremarkable enough to suit their needs. It was off-season, and the lot was empty. They’d have their pick of badly decorated rooms. Exciting. He and Sam opened their doors simultaneously, stepping out into the warm, dry air and sunshine. He tried not to be bothered by how much dust had settled on the car.

“You get the room, I’ll get a paper and some maps from the gas station we just passed,” Sam said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Dean said, knowing Sam wasn’t big on the credit card fraud. The motel lobby would have a map and a paper. “Sure. Hey, get me an Icee.”

“And beef jerky. I got it.”

“You know me so well.” Dean flashed a grin and batted his eyelashes. “And I wouldn’t say no to a Ho-Ho.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Double the ho,” Sam said wryly. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Sam loped away, gait slightly off from being crammed in the car for so long. That was probably another reason the kid wanted to go to the store. Dean had plenty of room, but even pushed back all the way the bench seat didn’t accommodate Sam’s height. Damnit, he said he wasn’t going to care about Sam’s creature comforts for a change. He turned himself toward the motel office, following tattered arrows which needlessly pointed the way. It wasn’t like the wide open spaces were a confusing maze to navigate. He looked the direction Sam had retreated, his brother a block away already.

The lobby was empty when Dean stepped through the door. Seeing no bell to ding, he cleared his throat loudly. That didn’t get any response. He leaned on the counter, peering onto the cluttered desk. Half a cheese sandwich, a coffee-ringed newspaper folded to the crossword and a credit card machine, numbers worn off the keypad, were all he saw. No body sprawled on the floor like he’d half expected. It would be their luck to walk right into the middle of a case or a plain ol’ human crime.

“Can I help you with something?”

The voice came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Elbow slipping as he jerked in surprise, all Dean could think was how Dad would ream him for letting a civilian get the jump on him. The thought was fleeting. In case the woman who belonged to the voice was worth it, he made an effort to regain some cool and charm. He shifted, pulling his elbow back onto the counter as he glanced over his shoulder at a short, rail-thin woman with graying, ashy blonde hair and eyes hard as flint. Still, she wasn’t bad looking despite the stern look on her face.

“I need a room,” he said, smiling anyway. Judging from the way the woman’s grouchy expression only deepened, it wasn’t going to work this time. Sam’d probably turn her into a puddle of goo with one look. There was no accountin’ for taste. “Please.”

She granted him a smile in return, all business-like and ice. She skirted around him to get behind the desk, depositing a crumpled paper towel in the trash. A bored expression now on her face, she tapped a few keys and studied the computer screen.

“Smoking or non?” she asked.

“Non. I’ll need two queens.”

“That’s all we have anyway.” She clacked a few more keys, no actual interest behind her words. “Off season rates are $21 a night for one person, $42 a night for two, tax included.”

This woman was a huge barrel of laughs. The case was going to suck ass if the whole town was like this. Dean pulled out his wallet, dispensing with any extraneous charms. Clearly, Ms. Front Desk wasn’t even regular friendly. No amount of wink-wink-nudge-nudge friendliness was going to crack that shell. 

“That’s great. Thanks,” he said, throwing a fifty on the counter. “We’ll start with one night. We’re just passing through. I’m on a road trip with my brother.”

“Okay, whatever,” she said. “What’s the name?”

“Chester.” Dean extended a hand to shake. “Chester Copperpot. Nice to meet you.”

His hand wasn’t shaken, not that he’d really expected it to be. She did look away from the computer screen, though, with a bare trace of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Dean thought he might be getting somewhere at last. Charming 

“I’m Audra. I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit out of sorts today,” she said. She studied him, shaking her head. “And you? Don’t look very much like a Chester.”

“I get that all the time,” he said, smiling. He flashed his fake ID to prove the truth of his lie. “Most people call me Chet, though.”

“Okay, Chet.” She grinned outright this time again, apparently not convinced Chet was much better than Chester. She wasn’t wrong. Audra picked up the cash, pulling out a receipt booklet. “In a sec you’ll be all set.”

“No rush.”

Dean strolled to the small rack holding various brochures from local attractions and sites. A quick perusal gave him insight to the whole area – mining town, rich in Native American history. Those two things alone meant their work was cut out for them. He shuddered, really hoping this wouldn’t involve bugs like the last time they dealt with a Native American curse. 

As he poked around, Dean actually found himself wanting to visit the Anasazi cliff dwellings over in Canyonlands National Park for his own enjoyment, nothing case-related. An entire civilization up and vanishing was _interesting_. He wouldn’t be able to work that in with Sam without giving away his inner geek, since there were, y’know, no Anasazi around to be responsible for whatever might be going on around here. He decided it would be worth it. Sam would probably geek out about it anyway, and be none the wiser about Dean’s interest.

“Chet,” Audra said. “I’m going to need to grab a copy of your ID for our records. We’re not exactly full up, but there are a few guests and we like to have photos on hand so staff will recognize you. I’ll also need one from…”

The lobby door opened, and Sam strolled in with his one hand carrying a bag filled with jerky, Ho-Hos and a map, and a drink, and the other holding another drink. He had a strip of jerky clenched in his teeth while he wrestled with the door with limited hand use. That was Sam, always making a grand entrance. 

“Your brother.” Audra stared at Sam like she’d never seen anything like him before. She shook her head, pulling out of her reverie.

“Well, speak of the devil and he will come,” Dean said, deftly snagging his Icee – cherry, mmmm – and the plastic bag. “My brother, Lester.” 

Sam winced, having been outvoted in fake name choice once again. He recovered quickly, pulling the jerky out of his mouth and shooting Audra one of his thousand-watt smiles. 

“Hey,” he said. “Please don’t call me Lester. My brother just does it to be annoying. I go by my middle name – Sam.”

Middle name. Dean should have thought of that. Now he was stuck being Chet and Sam was just Sam. He scowled at his brother, pretending it was really from brain freeze. Sam turned his smile on him, suddenly Mr. Sunshine because he’d outsmarted Dean’s name sabotage.

“Hello, I’m Audra.” Audra gave Sam a smile much warmer than any she’d shot in Dean’s direction. Goo. In a puddle. “I was just telling Chet I need IDs from both of you, you’ll be good to go. Room 19 is up the stairs to the right.”

“Sure,” Sam said, pulling out his fake ID. 

The check-in was finished in a few easy steps, ending with an invite for them (Sam) to come back if they needed _anything at all_ , which only made Sam look disconcerted. As far as Dean was concerned, his brother could keep the come-ons from the older ladies. His pride wasn’t wounded in the least. Not a bit. He tore into a strip of jerky as they hauled their stuff up to the godawful mauve-colored room.

“So,” Sam said as they entered, heading for the bed furthest from the door. “Turns out there have been an increased number of animal attacks in the area recently. They’re blaming coyotes. The last one was only a couple of days ago.”

“Coyotes, right.” Dean tossed the keys on the nightstand next to his bed. He pulled the goods out of the plastic bag. Tearing open a pack of Ho-Hos, he shoved an entire cake in his mouth, putting the remaining preservative-packed treat next to the keys. He unlaced his boots, kicking them off before he lay on the bed, resting his head on one hand. He talked and chewed at the same time. “Could be a werewolf, maybe.”

“Dude. Gross.” Sam wrinkled his nose at Dean’s eating habits. He booted up the laptop, shaking his head. “Moon cycle’s wrong for werewolf.”

“Some other kind of shapeshifter. A skinwalker, maybe.”

“Yeah, that’s a place to start, anyway. The problem’s going to be sifting through a ton of mythology. There’s a lot of history here. I know there was Anasazi in this area, but some Pueblo, Fremont and Ute, too.”

“I don’t know how you ended up such a geek, Sammy,” Dean said, rolling to his side. “You always had such a hard-on for the books. You do your thing. I’m going to take a nap.”

Which he did. Driving long distances wasn’t a picnic, and he found himself pretty wiped out. He dozed off to the sound of Sam’s fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard.

An hour later, he woke due to two things – a pang of hunger and a pillow tossed at his head. In those first moments of awareness, Dean couldn’t tell which had come first. He swung his legs off the bed. He was getting too complacent, too comfortable having Sam around and not on guard twenty-four/seven like Dad had taught him. Even when there wasn’t a clear and present danger, he should be more alert.

“You’re lucky I’m not armed,” he growled.

“Right, because waking you up is worse that you sticking me with all the work. I’m the one who should be armed.” Sam stood at the end of his bed, a bitchy, low-blood-sugar look on his face. “And you were snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s pinched look got even tighter as he tilted his head for emphasis. “You do.”

Fine, maybe he snored sometimes. It wasn’t worth an argument with a crabby little brother. Dean stretched his arms out. His stomach rumbled.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “You hungry?”

“That’s why I woke you. I figured if I was hungry that your bottomless pit of a stomach would be empty by now,” Sam said. “Plus, jerky and Ho-Hos will only get you so far, you know? Eventually you’re going to need the real thing.”

“Dude, I don’t want details about your personal habits or how you spend your money,” he said. “Keep your jerky to yourself.”

“Hilarious.” Sam huffed out an unamused snort. “You should give up hunting to be a full-time comedian.”

“Like I can’t do both.” He pulled his boots on, lacing them carelessly. “What’re you hungry for?”

“I saw a teriyaki place up the street,” Sam said, giving him a hopeful look.

Ugh. Dean’s palate said no to teriyaki, but his big brother instincts said yes to Sam and that damned expression, just like they always did. He was such a predictable bastard.

“Dude, you know I hate Chinese,” he said halfheartedly. “I’m always hungry again in an hour.”

“Teriyaki’s not Chinese, Dean.” Sam shook his head with a small smile. “And you’re _always_ hungry again in an hour.”

Sam wasn’t wrong.

“Whatever. They’d better have fortune cookies.”

&-&-&

“Thank you for your time and insight, Doctor Markinson,” Sam said. 

“Of course,” the stout, slightly balding coroner said. He had been nothing but helpful, a stroke of luck on their part. “I hope DWR can help with this. We’ve seen a marked increase in coyote sightings in the urban area over the past few years. It was only a matter of time, I suppose, before unfortunate incidents started to happen.”

The injuries on the late Ryan Dragt were gruesome. They should have made their visit to the medical examiner’s office prior to eating. Sam knew he had almost lost his lunch, and Dean _still_ looked a little uncomfortable and green around the gills. Unfortunately, the wounds weren’t specific enough to tell them much of anything. To Sam’s not-totally-untrained eye, they didn’t even look particularly canine. 

“We’re doing our best with that, sir,” Dean said.

“Though to tell you something in confidence, I’m actually not certain this falls under DWR’s purview.” Markinson pursed his lips together, looking down at Dragt’s corpse. “I don’t want the government expending resources when it doesn’t have to.”

“What do you mean?” he and Dean said simultaneously, then gave each other simultaneous startled looks. 

“I mean I don’t think these bites are from a coyote attack. The sheriff’s department wants to keep this under wraps, so you didn’t hear it from me.”

“If it’s not coyote, what do you think is doing this?” Sam asked. He didn’t know why the guy was being cagey with information now, if he was okay mentioning it in the first place.

“These marks here…” Markinson pointed, forcing them to look at the gaping wounds in Dragt’s neck and forearms. Ugh. “They’re incisors, but not canine. I cannot positively say this, but I’ve argued they might be human. So you can see why Sheriff Brock wants to keep this quiet for now. I’m surprised they called you in and not the Feds.”

Sam’s lunch was once again threatening to make a reappearance. He doubted a BLT looked great the second time around. It had been bad enough when he thought this was a werewolf or skinwalker attack, but plain old ordinary human? No, Dad wouldn’t have sent them here if it were a run-of-the-mill serial sicko. They didn’t mess with human affairs if they could help it, at least the last time Sam was up on things. He looked away, clenching his jaw. 

“Human,” Dean said. “As in Donner party, human?”

“More like Hannibal Lector, actually,” Markinson said, amused. “No one’s hungry enough in this town to take a nibble out of their neighbors. At least not this kind of nibble.”

Dean chuckled along with Markinson, while Sam rolled his eyes.

“Still,” Sam said. ““We’d really like to have a closer look at the other files as well, just to be sure.”

He hoped that by seeing all of the recent deaths attributed to coyote attack, they might be able to establish some commonality.

“Certainly. Candy’ll let you see whatever files you need on your way out,” Markinson said, all but dismissing them. He flipped a sheet over Dragt and rolled him back into his locker, slamming it shut loudly. “And, gentlemen, not a word of this to anyone. It’s speculation only.”

“Of course,” Sam said. They’d managed to find their way into the old boys club, apparently. Personally, he wasn’t impressed by the coroner’s indiscretion. But whatever. Ethics aside, it helped them a little. “Thanks again.”

“Candy, Candy, Candy, I can’t let you go,” Dean murmured to him as they pushed through the doors out of the morgue. “I got this one, Sam.”

Candy was an early-thirtysomething bleached blonde with a generous chest and not much else going for her. It was enough, and it didn’t surprise Sam that Dean would take that task upon himself. He didn’t mind at all, still vaguely disturbed at how Audra the front desk clerk looked at him like she wanted to eat him up with a spoon. He shuddered. Now more than ever, that was not a happy figure of speech. 

He kept his distance so Dean could do his work without further nauseating him. Thumbing through a few magazines in the small lobby area, Sam came to realize he had no idea coroners had their own journal. He didn’t read that one, not really caring to know about tips on how best to carve up a cadaver, but by the time Dean was done flirting, he’d skimmed an entire National Geographic. Every time he started to get exasperated with his brother while he waited, he considered that with Dad, Dean probably hadn’t had the luxury of a nap or extended flirting. He might not like the hunting life, but he felt glad he could do at least this for his brother. 

“Got what we need,” Dean said. “Or I will later tonight. We’re going to need more than a look at those files. Markinson leaves early to go golfing every Friday afternoon.”

“You think she’s going to let you walk out with the reports?” Sam asked. He shook his head. People were too damned careless.

“I promised I’d make my visit later worth her while.” Dean smiled slyly. “If you know what I mean. She won’t even notice they’re gone.”

Ugh. There was allowing Dean some downtime and then there was too much information. Sam sneaked a quick glance at Candy, who was studying _both_ of their asses as they walked out. He had a horrible thought he didn’t want to state out loud – that Candy wouldn’t mind if Sam came back later, too. God, now he felt dirty again. 

“Don’t be such a prude, Sammy,” Dean said, reading his expression. 

“I’m not,” Sam said, denying it the precise way a prude would and hating how he sounded. He’d never really gotten good at picking up girls. He did all right, but it made him feel like he was drowning while Dean always took to the pool like he’d been born with flippers. “I worry you’re going to contract something one of these days.”

“Dude, like I don’t know how to be careful.”

Dean shoved the door open, its movement halted by a thump, a muffled curse and then a thud. And more cursing. A loafer-clad foot was all that could be seen, scuttling on the sidewalk, the rest of the person hidden by the door. 

“Holy Christ, watch where you’re going,” said the victim of the unintentional door attack.

It was a delivery guy, a plastic bag filled with paper take-out cartons on its side next to him, the top carton leaking teriyaki sauce and a few pitiful chunks of chicken, like a violently murdered person might leak blood. They were looking the sad remains of someone’s lunch. 

“Sorry.” Dean extended a hand, pulling the man to his feet. “Didn’t expect anyone to be there.”

“Obviously.” The delivery guy was actually the owner of the teriyaki place they’d eaten at last night, Mr. Shigaki. He crouched, gathering up the take-out. He grimaced at the opened container. “Look at this mess.”

“We’re really very sorry, sir,” Sam said. He pulled out his wallet, withdrawing a twenty. “This should cover a new order. We can go back in and explain the delay if you’d like.”

“No, thanks. I’ve got it. I think you guys have done enough damage.”

“Hey, it was an accident. And we’re here to keep more damage from happening in this town, you…”

“Dean.” Sam gave his brother a light punch on the arm. Now was not the time to get into a pissing match with someone over something they couldn’t talk about anyway. Plus, Mr. Shigaki was short, slight and at least fifty. He didn’t stand much of a chance. Dean excelled at physical intimidation. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Dean said. He pulled the door open, ushering Shigaki to walk through with a ruthless grin on his face. Once the door was shut again, he turned to Sam. “That’s the asshole who wouldn’t give me a fortune cookie yesterday.”

“And you just knocked him flat on his back. You’re even.”

“When you put it that way.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a quick smile, suddenly Mr. Cheerful again. “What’re we doing standing around? We’ve got work to do.”

Sam watched Dean walk away for a second. That thing he’d thought before about cutting his brother some slack was gone. Even when Dean was being a pain in the ass, though, he wouldn’t want to be traveling with anyone else. Sometimes, not very often, Sam could even forget the bigger picture and just roll with their crazy life. Pretend he wasn’t there for vengeance and that he still longed, more than anything, to not be a hunter.

“You coming or what, Francis?”

Slipping his wallet back into his pocket, Sam joined Dean at the car. They had a lot of research to do yet. He hoped that cross-referencing some of what they knew based on Markinson’s conjecture and their own eyewitness of Dragt’s body, they might be able to figure out what Dad had sent them to Moab for. Hell at this point, they didn’t know if it was Native American in origin or if it had something to do with the town’s mining history. His money was on Native American, and he’d keep the focus there unless something else cropped up.

“I think we should hit the coordinates now, library later. Maybe we’re wasting our time dicking around town when Dad might have something for us there,” Dean said, as if he knew Sam’s thoughts had strayed to their father.

“What, like he left a note or something?” Sam asked, the words out before his brain could think them through and stop them. He sensed Dean tense and close off. He hadn’t meant anything by that, but somehow it always sounded like he did. “Or maybe an instructional DVD.”

His attempt to lighten the comment apparently failed. Dean didn’t say anything, just kept driving with his eyes on the street like it was the most interesting thing in the world. He didn’t take them to the coordinates outside of town, instead pulling the car in front of the library. He didn’t park or turn off the engine.

“Change of plans,” Dean said. “You hit the books, I’ll go see what’s what.”

“Dean…”

“I mean it, Sam. You go do your thing and I’ll meet up with you when I’m done with mine.”

So apparently he didn’t have much of a choice. As Sam exited the car and walked up the sidewalk, he told himself it was the smart move to split up. They could accomplish more, faster. By the time he reached the library door, he hadn’t convinced himself that was true. He did, however, wonder what he’d have to give to have his brother back, at even a fraction of what Sam remembered from before everything had become about getting out. He wasn’t sure he deserved that brother back, but it didn’t mean he’d ever stop wanting it. The more time he spent with Dean again, the more he realized how much his normal life had been filled with regret.

With nothing else to keep himself preoccupied, he searched online for awhile and then found the quietest, most unused-looking corner of the county library. He immersed himself in books and data and lore. Sam found age-old comfort there as he dug into legends and mythology for the area, seeking anything that might manifest in human form, be it cannibalism or sacrifice. He didn’t have much hope. The biggest figure in Pueblo mythology seemed to be _kokopelli_ , and he didn’t think a fertility-prankster-healer-storyteller god was likely to gnaw on someone. That sure as hell would be in the vast array of information about that figure somewhere. He had no luck finding anything of any value about the Fremont, either.

Eyes glazing slightly, he blinked a couple of times to clear his vision. He glanced at his watch. It had been nearly two hours, and Dean wasn’t there yet. The library was only open for another hour. Sam pulled out his cell and called his brother, who didn’t answer. Great, that probably meant he was on his own getting back to the motel. Good thing this was a small town and the walk would do him good anyway. He stood, stretching. Feeling like he had to step away for a minute or two, he wandered off in search of a water fountain he thought he remembered seeing.

He searched everywhere for a fountain, and eventually decided it had been a figment of his imagination. Now that he’d gotten the idea of water in his head, though, he found he was actually thirsty. Sam left the building in search of a café, coffee shop or even a vending machine. It only took him a few minutes to make it to Main Street, find a small convenience store and get back to the library. When he returned to his table of books and saw Dean still wasn’t there, he felt another pang of regret for the misunderstanding earlier. Another call went answered.

“Focus,” he muttered as he sat down, “On the case, Sam.”

The last hope was with Ute mythology. Sam figured there had to be something there. It was either that or they were so far off base they’d have to start all over again. He didn’t want that. Contrary to what Dean thought, Sam did like helping people and if they could prevent anyone else from having their throat ripped open, he would like that. He’d just also _really_ like to get the thing that killed Jess a little bit more than regular monsters. He shook out of that train of thought, scanning through stories and pictures to find a match. He landed on the best suspect yet. His skin crawled, ears buzzed and his palms began to sweat.

 _Siats_ , cannibalistic clown monster. Nasty piece of work. Even people way back then had known clowns were Bad News. This couldn’t be what they were after, if only because he really, really, really didn’t want it to be. Sam would never survive it. For several minutes, he couldn’t tear his attention away from the artistic rendering of this clown monster’s sharp teeth bared in a terrifying smile. He shuddered, imagining the victims frozen in horror, easy prey. He covered the picture with another book so he could get some more research done. Funnily enough, though, reading about a cannibalistic clown monster wasn’t any easier for him than staring at a picture of one. 

Sam was midway through one grisly story when a commotion from another part of the library snared his attention. A strident female voice called out, sounding mildly agitated. After a second, things quieted back down and he resumed reading. Again, he didn’t get very far. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of someone approaching. He looked up, discovering the library director had someone by the hand. Sam raised his eyebrows.

The person being led around was Dean, who looked like a sulky four-year-old, complete with a tuft of hair sticking out of place. 

“Is this who you’re looking for, honey?” the librarian said, actually _sounding_ like she was speaking to a small child. 

What the hell? Sam stood, feeling like he was either missing something vital or should be waiting to find out Dean was pranking him. He stared at his brother’s downturned posture as he nodded an affirmative to the question and as his cheeks darkened to an embarrassed and possibly angry shade of red when the librarian patted him on the arm and issued a broad, patronizing smile. 

“I believe this young man belongs to you,” she said, releasing Dean with yet another pat on the arm. “I’m glad we could figure it out so quickly. He was getting a bit anxious.”

“Thank you,” Sam said. “I appreciate it?”

“You’re welcome. He seems awfully devoted to you,” she said. “It’s sweet, really. It’s nice to see family taking care of each other.”

The librarian took her leave. Dean remained absolutely silent, which was definitely unnerving Sam like nobody’s business. Sam decided he was going to pretend nothing was going on, in the hopes it would defuse Dean’s prank-bomb before it went off. He tried to keep his face from reflecting how confused he was, watching Dean finally glance up at him. 

“So, did you find anything out?” he asked. 

Dean pressed his lips together and shook his head. 

“I think I might have something.” 

It seemed like ignoring the weird scene that had just played out was the way to go. Dean relaxed a little and he looked kind of relieved.

“In Ute lore, there’s a cannibalistic monster called _Siats_.” Sam chose to leave out the part about it being a _clown_ monster. “None of the information explicitly says that it aims for the throat, but I don’t know if the attacks on the other victims had the same focus. Did you go see Candy, is that what took you so long?”

Dean nodded, then shrugged. He opened his mouth, thought for a second and closed it again.

“Well?” Sam pressed. He couldn’t take it anymore. “Dude, what is with the silent treatment? Is this about before? I didn’t mean anything, I swear.”

After looking bewildered for a moment, Dean shook his head. 

“Then tell me what you got from the coroner’s office so we can figure out if this thing is what we’re looking for.”

Giving an annoyed huff, Dean glared at him. He clenched his jaw and appeared to be contemplating what to do.

“I tried to sample,” Dean said, speaking at last and looking as pitiful as ever. “The sweet, delicious bonbon. But it was bitter.”

“Uh,” Sam said. He blinked. “What?”

&-&-&

No one could be more confused than Dean, but the dumbfounded look on Sam’s face told him the race was closer than he would have imagined. The problem was that he didn’t know what was going on, when it had started or how to make it stop. The only thing he knew was that whatever he thought he was going to say came out like gibberish, no matter how hard he tried to stop it. Case in point, he wanted to tell Sam to quit looking at him like he’d grown a second set of eyes or something. 

“The boy is bashful,” he said instead, poking Sam’s chest for emphasis. “The discomfort only grows. Every minute, pain.”

“Uh,” Sam said again, confusion turning into concern. “You … you’re in pain?”

Shaking his head, Dean pursed his lips and scowled. He moved away, pacing a little. He had no idea how he was supposed to explain something he didn’t understand himself. It had just … _started_ , out of the blue.

“But there’s something wrong with you. You’re freaking me out. Dean, what’s wrong with you?”

Dean sighed. He couldn’t _tell_ Sam what was wrong, that was the problem. It had been established before he set foot in the library that he couldn’t tell anyone anything. He had to get that look off his brother’s face somehow, or soon Sam would be treating him like a special needs kid just like the librarian – and Candy before her – had. It took a lot for Dean to be humiliated. In the last hour or so, he’d crossed that line several times. He couldn’t take it from his own brother. He shrugged.

“You have no idea.” Sam didn’t sound like he believed him. He raised his hands and took another tentative step, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “Did something happen out there?”

He shook his head again. Nothing had actually happened to him, as far as he could tell. It was only when he started hitting on Candy that he had started sounding like a moron. Out where Dad had sent them there’d been rocks and sparse brush and a construction crew, and oh, crap that sounded familiar. A development project unearthing something nasty. He wondered if what Sam found involved a curse, too. There had better not be bugs this time. His skin itched at the thought, and his brained itched to know what Sam knew.

“But this is why you wouldn’t answer the phone when I called.”

Dean nodded. As long as Sam kept asking yes and no questions, he would be okay. He still felt stupid, but at least it wasn’t an embarrassing kind of stupid. He was going to have to rely on Sam being able to figure this out before he lost his mind completely. He was already dangerously close after an hour and a half of this shit. Someone could tip him over with a tiny push.

“Uh. Maybe we should get out of here. Go somewhere more private,” Sam said suddenly, furtively glancing around. “I thought I had something, but now I’m not sure. It’s almost closing time anyway, and now we’ll have to break into the medical examiner’s office to see if there’s a distinct pattern with the other victims and what might be our monster. You didn’t get the files, did you?”

Dean shook his head, unhappy about his failure with Candy on many levels. He glimpsed a picture of a scary-looking, snaggle-toothed creature as Sam cleaned up his books, stowing a few of them in his bag with a guilty grimace. The image registered a vague memory with him, but didn’t pay any attention to that or to Sam feeling bad about stealing a library book. There were bigger fish to fry. Sam was rambling, which meant he was nervous. Dean agreed with the idea to leave. He swore he could feel the librarian’s eyes on him even though she was nowhere in sight. He was not a sideshow freak or a pity case, damnit.

“You want me to take the wheel?” Sam asked.

Like hell.

“Hands at nine and three,” Dean said, throwing his brother a deadly glare. “The engine roars and tires roll. A trained monkey steers.”

“Okay, I totally got that one.” 

He watched Sam pull a weird face, like he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. That was when Dean realized his brother was no longer worried so much as he was struggling not to laugh at him. Humiliation left the stage and anger took over. He wished he could tell his brother where to put that muffled chuckle of his without just inducing more laughter. 

The entire way to the motel he could feel Sam shooting him glances. Dean kept his eyes on the road, for his own sanity and Sam’s health. He didn’t want to run off the road because he was busy punching his brother. 

“I’m going to go nuts if I have to keep asking you questions until we figure this out,” Sam said as they entered the room. “And chances are I won’t ask the right questions. Maybe you should try to write something.”

Dean gave him his best _you’ll go nuts?!_ look. Still, it wasn’t a bad idea. He should have thought of it himself back when Marion the librarian was seconds away from tousling his hair (again). It would have worked better than throwing a tantrum like he did. No wonder the woman thought he was the mental age of five. Never mind. He strode between his and Sam’s bed, reaching for the notepad and a pen and wrote what little he knew.

_The ground is broken;  
What was present has now moved.  
Please be no bugs there._

There went that theory. Dean ripped the top sheet off and crumpled it, angrily tossing the paper ball across the room. Naturally, Sam trotted for it, smoothed it out and read it to himself silently. His lips moved even after he had to have been done reading, like he was going over it again and again. 

“Dean, I know what this is,” Sam said at last, looking at him with wide eyes. 

For a brief, shining moment, Dean thought maybe he hadn’t written a bunch of nothing after all and that the problem was not just with his mouth but his eyes as well. Lost in multiple translations. He sat down, relieved. Then Sam kept talking.

“I mean, I have no idea what you’re saying.” Sam sat across from him on his own bed. He lifted the crinkled paper up. “But you’re saying it in haiku. It probably would have taken me forever to figure it out by your speech alone, because, whoa. You’re not making any sense. But see, five seven five. Say something else.”

He had no idea what Sam was talking about. He could think of no good reason he’d be speaking and writing in haiku if Moab was a hotbed for Native American cultures and the non-haikuy curses that might come along with them. It only took him a second, though. Dean was fairly sure that meant they’d wasted every minute they’d been here so far. And he was barely able to communicate, the giant handicap in the room. Fantastic. He couldn’t figure out why something had proactively gone after them (him, since Sam was blissfully unpoetic) if they had been so far off base.

“There will always be.” Dean paused and he didn’t even know why. “Much mystery in this life, which cannot be learned.”

Jesus, what a convoluted way to say _what the fuckity fuck is going on_. No more talking. Ever. Not if he could help it.

“Five seven five,” Sam mused, ticking off syllables with his fingers. “You did it again. For some reason, you can only speak in those syllables and in a certain rhythm.”

All right, so he’d been too quick about being mad at Sam. Anyone else, except maybe Dad, who would’ve already lost patience, would probably have still been laughing at him, but the look on Sam’s face was one of determination and confusion. A second ago he’d been certain he’d be stuck in Haikuville forever, but not now. Not with Sam on it. Sam would figure this out. He had to. Sam was great at this kind of thing.

“This is going to suck,” the lauded boy genius said.

“A king’s court jester.” Oh shit, why was he speaking? Dean tried to keep more words from coming out, but once he’d started he had to finish. “Tells no funny jokes today. Off with his dumb head.”

Sam gawped for a second, then his whole face seemed to transform into a smile. Then he laughed. Giggled, actually, like some internal dam had split down the middle letting out laughter like it was water. He gasped and chortled for a good few minutes, choking out a garbled word here and there. Frankly, it sounded like he really was the one who was going nuts.

Having no means to tell his brother to piss off in any way that wouldn’t make him laugh even harder, Dean waited for the laughing fit to be over. At this point, he was horrified to think of what his haiku-generator of a brain would come up with anyway. He was also determined not to fuel the fire of Sam’s laughter. As irritating as it was, he couldn’t blame Sam for the reaction. This was ridiculous. He was lucky Sam hadn’t cracked up back at the library. Still, by minute two it was getting old. He glared at Sam, willing the kid to knock it off already.

Amazingly, Sam did stop almost immediately at the non-verbal command, with a couple remaining sniffling laughs. He brushed tears off his cheeks, looking over at Dean sheepishly. He bobbed his head down, as if ashamed.

“Sorry. It’s just so, so…” Sam said, unable to speak in a normal voice yet. He looked back up, barely holding it together by the looks of him. “You … _poetry_ … and your face … I can’t help it.”

Dean waved a hand. They could spend all afternoon airing their grievances and issuing apologies. Probably all night, too. He was sure that combined, they had more issues than any two people should. For right now, he only cared about one issue. He got up, walking to Sam’s laptop case. He pulled the computer out, waggling it to get Sam’s attention back where it needed to be.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “It looks like we have to start back at square one, and we have to go fast before you go nuts. Or I do.”

If Dean could read his brother even half as well as he used to be able to, he’d say Sam actually looked relieved by that. Annoying. The geek probably looked forward to being elbow deep in research again. He’d tell Sam exactly what he thought of that except, well, haiku. Not happening. No talking until they found the goddamned thing that did this to him.

“So we’re looking for something Japanese, not Native American.”

What a whiz kid. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Shut up. I’m still kind of freaked out by the poetry.” Sam yanked the laptop out of Dean’s hands and retreated to his bed, sprawling out in a way that didn’t look conducive to hours of research. “I’m not sure which is the more relevant, the curse or the bites on the victims.”

Dean knew which he’d vote for, but he wasn’t an unbiased party. He shot Sam a look, but his brother was already focused only on the computer. That left him with little to do. He mentally replayed the afternoon, trying to think of how or when this had happened. It might help narrow things down. He started back at the slight disagreement he’d avoided having with Sam by ditching the kid. In fact, the only person he could recall having any bad blood with was Sam. He frowned. It wasn’t like Sam had cursed him. He moved to the other side of the room, eyeballing the sites Sam was scrolling through. To make sure this wasn’t some sort of sick joke and Sam wasn’t researching at all.

“You know what? Now you’re creeping me out, standing over my shoulder and not talking like that,” Sam said, turning to glare at him. “It’s not natural.”

 _Thank you, Captain Obvious,_ Dean thought.

“Appreciation,” Dean said, mentally cursing the fucking haiku curse. Whatever did this was going to pay. “For understanding the truth, as plain as it is.”

Sam blinked and his face contorted a little. He turned away, shoulders rising up in clear effort to contain his reaction. After a moment he turned back, eyes watery with mirth. 

“You’re right, I was stating the obvious.” Sam’s voice was tight, like he was locking the laughter in his throat. His lips twitched, treacherously close to a smile. “On the plus side, I think I’m getting better at figuring out what the heck you’re talking about.” 

Dean made a frustrated noise from the back of his throat, biting his lip to keep his stupid mouth from taking over again. Not that he wasn’t grateful Sam thought he was getting better at deciphering babble, it was that he didn’t want to be babbling.

“Maybe it’d help if you broke in and got the other files since you couldn’t grab them this afternoon. I’d still like to see if there’s a pattern this thing follows.” Sam shifted the laptop so Dean could see better. “Japanese mythology is extensive. This is going to take awhile, and like I said - you’re unnerving me. A distraction might be good for both of us while we try to deal with this, uh, development.”

Growling again, Dean leaned closer to the screen. He gave a low whistle. Sam wasn’t exaggerating. At a glance, it seemed the Japanese lore had a deity, demon, monster or spirit for almost everything. For crying out loud, not far down the list he saw there was a spirit responsible for licking bathrooms clean every night. There were several varieties of haunted paper lanterns. None of that had anything to do with this, but it was a lot to sift through without specific parameters.

He nodded at Sam, grabbed his coat and pointed to his watch. Flashing his index finger to tell Sam he’d be back in an hour, Dean ignored the relief in his brother’s expression and left the room. With any luck, he could do this without running into anyone on the street. He didn’t need the drama. It was just getting dark out, not ideal conditions for breaking and entering, but he was a professional. 

He could handle it unless he burst into poetry for some reason he couldn’t think of but he had no doubt could happen anyway. 

This time around absconding with the files was a piece of cake. Dean even had time to make copies of the important information rather than outright stealing it. Security was alarmingly lax, but the town’s backwater idiocy was his gain. He also managed to avoid most human contact between the morgue and the motel, passing up the opportunity to snag dinner because it just wasn’t worth the pain of miming or haikuing his way into a lousy sandwich. His stomach could wait, as unhappy as that thought was. 

There was a vending machine just outside the motel office. He grabbed a bag of Cheetos and with a wave to Audra, who was once again on duty, Dean headed for the room. He hoped with every fiber of his being that Sam had been as lucky as him and didn’t even need the files. If wishes were horses … so much for that idea. The room appeared vacant when he stepped through the door. He opened his mouth to call for Sam, in case he was just in the head, thought better of it and gently pushed the door open instead. Empty, fortunately, because it would’ve been awkward otherwise. He dumped the copied files onto Sam’s bed next to the computer, finally noticing a piece of paper on the table. Strolling over, he picked it up with his artificial cheese powdered fingers and read his brother’s quick scrawl.

_Hunger grew too strong;  
Unless there is some trouble,  
Soon stomach happy._

At that moment, Dean didn’t know if he hated or loved the crap out of his ginormous pain in the ass nerd of a brother.


	2. Chapter 2

“And I’ll bet _now_ you wish Dad had given us more than latitude and longitude,” Sam said, trying to put a funny spin on the words.

Abusive haiku was not forthcoming, but Dean chucked the dessert menu at him. It caught him on the left cheekbone. He supposed that meant he’d just taken a proverbial pie to the face. There was no pain at first, but after a moment his face began to sting where the acrylic menu holder had hit. He rubbed at his cheek, something pinging in his brain as if the contact had jolted him. He stared out the window for a second, frowning to get the thought clear. He recognized the teriyaki place owner hurrying past across the street. Ah, small towns. Familiar faces everywhere.

Sam fiddled with the dessert menu and placed it on the table. And then it hit him.

“Dean, the latitude and longitude.” He held up a hand before his brother threw something else at him. Like a butter knife. “I think we’ve been going about this all wrong.”

He must have been more preoccupied by the randomness of Dean’s haiku than he thought to have missed something so big. Instead of spending so much time sifting through hundreds of Japanese spirits and myths looking for something that could curse and liked the taste of human flesh, he should have started at the source. He hadn’t. Because, if he were going to own the truth, he was still bothered by Dad giving them a fraction of what they needed. Along with dealing with the haiku, he’d been operating at least partially on some juvenile, pent-up need to thumb his nose at a man who wasn’t even there. Dad had told them to go somewhere specific, so that was the last place Sam wanted to go.

“I should have known. We’re in an area filled with Native American history. What’s going on out there in that spot that would throw Japanese into the mix?”

“The ground not sacred,” Dean said, straightening and looking present for the first time since Maxine had approached their table. “Yet construction stirs a ghost. My tongue has been cursed.”

“Yeah, you know, the only way the curse makes sense is if whatever is doing this knows we’re here and was trying to throw us off its trail.” Sam felt both stupid and guilty, because it had worked all too well. He’d been spending more time thinking about getting Dean to talk like a normal person again than about finding their monster in a direct way. “But I suppose without the curse, we might still have no idea the origin of the thing, even if that’s all we know.”

It gave him an uneasy feeling. He didn’t like being toyed with, and he had to wonder if their mystery monster had something worse than haiku in store for them. More specifically, if Dean was a bigger target than he was because he was already afflicted with something. Sam took a nervous look around, as if he’d really spot something watching them. Of course, there was nothing there. No obvious bad guy in a shadowy corner, watching and twirling a supernatural handlebar moustache. 

“Following the path, thorns and brambles everywhere.” Dean drummed his fingers on the table, seemingly frustrated by an involuntary dramatic pause. “Trimming clears the way.”

When Dean wasn’t fighting it so hard, the haiku wasn’t nearly as funny. Either that, or the knowledge he had screwed up big time made Sam more sober than he had been all day. He couldn’t let the curse continue to drive him to diversion, and it was easier to do when he didn’t find what Dean said comical as hell. Dean must have felt something similar, as he didn’t cringe and grimace after speaking this time. Sam wondered what it was like, if his brother thought in haiku or if he was normal inside and extra special outside. It had to be the latter. Dean would have gone nuts already if it were anything else.

“Here we go, boys,” Maxine said, returning to their table with plates of steaming food in hand. “Minestrone soup and chicken salad sandwich for you, and a rare burger with extra onions for this one here.”

Oh, crap. For a second it looked like she was going to tousle Dean’s hair. Dean would lose it for sure.

“Strange looks though you give,” Dean said, a surprise response. The cringe was back, though. “There is only gratitude. Pickles on the side.”

Maxine looked as flustered as ever by the odd speech patterns.

“He says thanks,” Sam interpreted. His smile was back. Seriously, he couldn’t help it. _Pickles on the side._ Dean did hate hot pickles. “It looks delicious.”

Maxine twitched a half smile of her own. That reaction was better than many she could have given. Hell, it was better than what Sam consistently gave. Guilty again, he concentrated on the food in front of him, while Dean did exactly the same. Sam’s mind raced, though, and he itched to get back and fix the error he’d made. For all he knew, Dean had been trying to tell him to look for what specifically had been on that site, which might therefore give them a better clue of what might have been released when Mayfair Contractors broke ground.

“Window left open,” Dean said suddenly. “The Barcalounger is shot. Blame it on the _rain_.”

Sam glanced up. Great, Dean was getting all existential again. And quoting Milli Vanilli while he was at it. He’d only been a kid back in the Milli Vanilli days. He was not going to take flak for thinking they were cool when he was too young to know better. Of course, he was pretty sure Dean wasn’t actually trying to tease him about his musical taste as a seven-year-old.

“Blame it on the rain, Dean?” he asked, fighting the urge to laugh again. “Really?”

Dean clenched his jaw, not answering. He pointed a finger and circled it around his own face, then pointed at Sam.

Right, the guilt was written all over his face, and Dean was letting him know it wasn’t his fault. Sam stared down at his plate, hating that no matter what he was thinking it was almost always broadcast for everyone to see. It had only gotten worse in the past few years, not having had to hide what he was feeling from anyone. Now that he was in the company of family again … not the time for dwelling on the past. Sam took a large bite out of his sandwich, not shocked when it tasted a lot like sand. 

They finished their meal in silence. Maxine circled a few times, curiosity probably getting the best of her, and on the last lap she brought their bill, Dean his cherry pie ala mode and an enormous triple fudge brownie and a glass of milk for Sam.

“On the house, sweetie,” she whispered. “You deserve something nice now and again, I think.”

Sam didn’t think he did, but the righteous indignation on Dean’s face buoyed his spirits the way no brownie ever could. It was that special kind of glee only a younger brother could experience, layered just that little bit differently than any other glee. For the three minutes it took him to enjoy every last bite of the very delicious free brownie, watching Dean go from indignant to offended to amused was all that mattered. He’d get back to business as soon as he finished the glass of frothy, ice-cold milk. He tipped it back, gulping quickly. 

“You boys are still in town, eh?”

Startled by the sudden appearance of Doctor Markinson at their booth, Sam slammed the glass down on the table and jumped in his seat. He thought he recovered quickly enough, but noticed Dean looking at him with a crooked smile. _Let he who does not speak nonsense cast the first stone_ , Sam thought, returning Dean’s crooked smile with a quirk of an eyebrow and a dare to go there. 

“Yeah,” Sam said. “We need to be thorough.”

“Of course.” Markinson seemed like he wanted to say something more, but eventually shook his head. He glanced at Dean for a second, a bland expression on his face. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“We’ll do that, thanks. You were a big help. We already have an idea of how to proceed.”

“That’s good, that’s good,” Markinson said, scratching at his upper lip. “Well, have a nice night.”

“You too.” As soon as the guy was out of the restaurant, Sam turned to his brother, who was now giving him a full grin. “What?”

“Fruit of the udder, the gift of alabaster,” Dean said, almost laughing. “Remains as a ‘stache.”

Fruit of the … oh. Sam hastily wiped the milk moustache off with the back of his hand, shooting Dean a glare. It wasn’t that funny, though it did explain the weird looks Markinson had pulled. A decent person would have said something. He rolled his eyes at Dean, jerking his head toward the door. He didn’t wait for an affirmative, knowing Dean was more than ready to get back to the case. Sam wasn’t so heartless he’d make Dean try to pay in haiku. He moved for the cashier while Dean escaped further human contact outside. 

The ride to the motel was quick and quiet. As long as Dean wasn’t withholding on purpose, Sam was okay with that. Knowing the thing that was keeping them silent was practical and not personal made a world of difference. Crap, if Dean knew what a sap he was, he’d never hear the end of it. The thing was that right about now he could use some of Dean’s snark. He’d never admit it, but the more his brother ragged on him, the harder he tended to work. He suspected Dean knew this anyway. As it was, Sam felt unbalanced.

He’d have to keep working through that handicap. There was no other choice. Sam hit the laptop right away, pulling it from his bed to the table. Dean turned the TV on to keep himself entertained, though out of the corner of his eye Sam saw his brother’s leg jostling nervously. The sounds of artificial violence on TV beat Dean’s pacing and silence. Sam’s fingers flew, and it didn’t take him long to figure out what was obvious in hindsight.

“I’ve got it, Dean.”

Dean was up and at his side in a flash. No surprise there. All kidding aside, Dean was starting to look frayed around the edges in a way that was not funny at all. The wail of a TV siren filled the room. 

“Turns out the site housed an internment camp during World War II,” Sam said. “Moab wasn’t the site for a regular camp, more like an isolation center for those, uh, guests who had criminal records. Most of the people deemed the biggest threats were actually sent to Tule Lake in California, but that doesn’t mean something couldn’t have happened here.”

He paused, remembering after a second that he wasn’t going to have Dean as a sounding board here. He had no idea how he could have forgotten that, or how he’d become so accustomed to Dean’s input that he didn’t know what to do without it. He had to suck it up. Be a Winchester whether he liked it or not.

“There doesn’t seem to be any record of deaths at Moab, but that doesn’t mean none happened.” Sam chewed on his lower lip. This wasn’t particularly happy material to be reading, though in their lives it wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever come across. “We’d have to dig deeper than anything online could tell us to find out for sure.”

“Final Jeopardy,” Dean said. “The question must be given – time in a bottle.”

The haiku almost rolled right off Sam’s back at this point. Almost. He still had to bite back a smile whenever Dean spoke. 

But, yeah, for all they knew this spirit or whatever was out there right now, claiming another victim. Time was of the essence. Wait, wait. Authorities thought these were animal attacks, so maybe there was a pattern he’d missed seeing about where the bodies were found. He’d missed big things already and he knew he had paid more attention to the wounds from the coroner’s reports than anything. Now he backtracked to the online news blurbs about each victim.

“Dean, these people died all over the place. One in his backyard. A woman over in Arches National Park. If this is a spirit of someone who died at the interment site, it doesn’t seem to be tied to that location. I don’t know how it could be tied to anything.” 

The more he thought about it, the more he thought he could cross the spirits off the slowly-dwindling list, and disregard the haiku altogether. That was chaff, not the grain of the problem. This thing was smart and efficient. It knew what it was doing. It was brutal and indiscriminate in whom it killed.

“We should go out there tonight, though. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Arm for something solid.” 

Dean nodded, already moving. They needed something tangible to work with, as it seemed they were dealing with something more corporeal than ethereal. If that were the case, they really _might_ have been being watched all along in a much more literal sense than Sam had considered. That meant even as they drove out to the Mayfair site, they could be monitored. He didn’t like rushing in where fools wouldn’t, but he was also tired of spinning his wheels. 

As the approached their final destination, though, Sam saw they weren’t the first ones out there for the night. The development was aglow with the blue and red strobing lights of police and rescue vehicles. He tightened his lips in a line, giving Dean an unhappy glance as his brother slowed the car down and pulled over to the side of the road. Sam withdrew his Division of Wildlife Resources ID, ready to give old Lester Copperpot another workout. 

“Let me do the talking,” Sam said with an evil grin, unable to resist the jibe despite the seriousness of the crime.

Dean clenched his jaw and swung out of the car, not deigning to give him a haiku. What a buzzkill.

Accessing the fresh crime scene was absurdly easy, a flash of the badge and a nod getting them all they needed. Sam scanned the activity quickly, honing in on a dark pool of blood, a shredded T-shirt, a group of scared-looking teens surrounded by several uniforms, a man being triaged by EMTs, moaning weakly. He tapped Dean, pointing to what was the hugest piece of luck they could have ever hoped for. A survivor. 

He didn’t have much hope to actually speak to the victim, but Sam approached anyway in case some bit of conversation would come out of it. Dean circled toward the teenagers, intent on the same idea. 

Sam couldn’t hear much, the EMTs working quickly to load the man into an ambulance, mostly medical jargon and rapidfire orders between them. The victim looked down for the count, more unconscious than awake.

Seeking out a deputy instead, Sam flashed his badge again, “Sam Copperpot, DWR. What have we got? Another coyote attack? Did anyone see the animal?”

“No animal sighting,” the deputy said, shaking her head. “Right now I’m not sure what is going on. The vic was pretty out of it and talking crazy, and those punk-ass kids aren’t helping. They’re all high as kites.”

“Talking crazy?”

“Yeah, something about a human head flying around like a frigging balloon. One of the kids claimed it had huge teeth and glowing eyes.” The deputy scoffed. “Kids these days should lay off the psychotropics, you know?”

Sam didn’t need to hear any more. The story and images it posed resonated with him instantly, but he wasn’t sure what it meant yet. He needed to look at his research again. He retreated back to Dean, who shrugged before Sam could ask if he’d had luck. If his brother knew something, it wasn’t like he could tell him. He nodded in return to let Dean know he had a tentative lead. If the victim didn’t die from the injuries, they’d know even more once they had the chance to talk with him. 

They left the scene before their presence was actually noticed by someone who’d realize they shouldn’t be there. _Sometimes_ , Sam thought, _we’re like ghosts ourselves._ And that wasn’t a happy thought. 

“Dean,” Sam said as they walked quickly to the car. “This is going to sound insane, and it may mean nothing.”

What he meant was that he hoped it meant nothing. He turned his head to scope out the scene again, as if looking for something that wouldn’t be there. By the time they could give enough attention to this place, it would be scoured by the local LEOs.

“The victim? Apparently when the cops first arrived he was moaning about a floating, disembodied head attacking him.” Sam climbed into the car. He sat mostly sideways, twisted toward Dean as his brother steered them away. “But that could just be blood loss talking, right? He was delirious.”

“Sometimes down is up,” Dean said sensibly. “The world seen through different eyes, it is still the truth.”

Okay, so Dean thought they were looking for a big, giant, flesh-eating head also. Probably.

&-&-&

The son of a bitch was messing with them. 

Dean knew there was no way this beast would have attacked the project manager for Mayfair Contractors on that particular piece of property without intending it to be a direct jab at him and Sam. The floating head, if it was a disembodied melon they were on the hunt for, might as well have shouted _’You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!’_ at them instead. Of course, everyone knew what happened to the Gingerbread Man at the end of the story, and Dean … well, he was aiming to be the fox.

But he didn’t think it had anticipated that the guy would survive to tell the tale, or that there was going to be a small party of drunken idiot kids out there to see it all go down. That was a stroke of luck that would make the hunt all the easier. And faster. Reliable or not as witnesses in the eyes of the law, those kids had seen something that wasn’t natural. And as weird as a mobile, bodiless head was, it sounded exactly like something they’d have to deal with and they couldn’t dismiss it the way the authorities did. 

By the intensity with which Sam was peering at his laptop screen, Dean guessed his brother already had some clue what it might be. That was enough for him to buy into the story, at least until they could prove it true or false. It was probably true. It didn’t faze him at all that they were dealing with something ridiculous, considering he was a walking haiku factory at the moment. Hell, they really should have anticipated this level of insanity. Cursed by a freaking head monster was something that only _could_ happen to them. If Dad were here, he’d have never been cursed by a freaking head monster. Dad would already be on the road to the next hunt by now.

“Okay, I think it’s got to be either a _rokurokubi_ or a _nukekubi_ ,” Sam said. 

Dean rolled his hands, telling Sam to keep on talking. He wanted to speed things up. He was tired of not being able to string together a sentence himself, but by the looks of him Sam was just plain tired. The dark circles were ever-present and it wasn’t like Sam got much decent sleep these days anyway, but Dean had forgotten how much of a toll going it alone had or how much of what they did relied heavily on speaking with people. He didn’t like to think of those few weeks when Dad had ditched him and he’d gone running to Sam, for several reasons.

“There’s nothing about either of them that says they could curse someone, but a _rokurokubi_ at least is a trickster figure. It likes to pull pranks.” Sam at up straight in a stretch, his back popping in several places. He yawned. “Let’s see. Some versions say a _rokurokubi_ looks human by day and might not even realize it isn’t. In human form it might think it just has really bizarre dreams, but what’s really happening is that its neck extends to find people to frighten. Other accounts indicate the head detaches completely and floats free-form. Either way, it usually change its face into a grotesque mask.”

Sam paused and looked at him as if expecting a verbal cue, not the first time he’d done that and not the first time Dean couldn’t give him more than a shrug. And he honestly felt bad about that. He also felt glad. It was pathetic, but it made him think that maybe Sam _did_ need him. 

“Anyway,” Sam continued, somehow sounding noticeably more tired. “Most sources say that the head remains attached to the body, so I think between the two it’s probably the _nukekubi_. It has a lot of the same properties as the _rokurokubi_ – normal human by day, unrecognizable monster head by night. There’s no doubt about the head and neck detaching, though. Everything I can find here says it most definitely separates and flies around on its own. The _nukekubi_ is a bit more vicious as well. It screams to frighten its prey, and then swoops down and bites, often killing or disfiguring its victims. And it knows what it’s doing, even when in human form.”

Dean nodded, though he wondered why Sam had expounded on the _rokurokubi_ when he knew it wasn’t what he was leading up to. His brother probably found all of this fascinating. Or maybe he was too damned tired to filter out what wasn’t important and so treated Dean to the word vomit. Sam had a tendency to prattle when he was exhausted or nervous; right now he could be both. Dean knew he was. The floating head, while ridiculous, also seemed like a small, rapidly-moving target that would be difficult for them to dispose of. First they had to figure out how to find it.

“Wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Dean said thoughtfully. “What is real and what is not? Impossible wool.”

Sam gave a slow-lidded blink and showed no sign of comprehension. On the plus side, he didn’t look amused either. In fact, he looked downright dimwitted for a second before he shook it off and moved for the coffee pot, refilling his mug. He sipped at it, as if the crappy motel coffee would somehow give him clarity when all it would give him was heartburn.

“I don’t know what you meant,” Sam said at last, returning to his station at the computer. “But if you’re wondering how we’re going to find a _nukekubi_ if it looks human by day and we may not recognize its monster face, then we’re on the same page.” 

Screw finding out who it was, he was going to blow it to smithereens like he was skeet shooting. Dean would patrol the entire state of Utah until he caught it on a nocturnal flight if he had to.

“It says here that a _nukekubi_ has a line of red symbols at the site where the neck and head detach from the body. These are easily hidden by clothing or jewelry, and that’s why they can pass for human.” Sam snorted. “So all we have to do is get close enough to everyone who lives in Moab and the surrounding area to see if they’ve got these marks.”

Not necessarily. This thing had made it personal the second it had turned Dean into Haiku Central, so the question was really if they’d encountered anyone who might have a bone to pick above and beyond him and Sam being hunters. The list was short but written in bold letters, as far as he was concerned. It was so short that he should have thought of it the second he’d started reciting haiku.

“An idea brews,” Dean said, slapping Sam on the shoulder hoping to holy hell that his brother would figure the rest of this out. Whatever it turned out to be. He often didn’t know himself. “The eye doesn’t see what’s there. No sweet good fortune.”

Hey, that wasn’t too bad.

“God, we have to kill this thing soon because you are killing _me_ with this stuff,” Sam said, petulant and grumpy and clearly disagreeing about the clearness of Dean’s words. 

At least Dean wasn’t getting laughed at anymore. Not that a Sam bitchfest was ever that much fun. His haiku was no worse than Sam’s constant need to be a douche. Dean had been enduring that for years. A few hours of crazy-talk were a drop in the bucket.

“I wish you could just be sane again.”

Hey. That was a low blow. Dean was painfully aware he sounded like a schizoid off his meds, but that didn’t mean he was. Yet. He put the sting of the personal slight out of mind. He had to find another way to let Sam know what he was thinking. Charades? Miming? Maybe he could build a fucking diorama out of Ho-Ho wrappers and beef jerky remnants. Instead he grabbed the slim local phonebook, thumbed to the Rs in the Yellow Pages and pointed. Emphatically. He waited and watched for Sam’s eyes to skim down the entries and land on what Dean wanted him to see.

“Oh.” Sam nodded right away. “I get what you mean. Why didn’t you just say so?”

Funny.

The fact was, Mr. _“No Fortune Cookie For You”_ Shigaki of Teriaki Stix fame was their only practical candidate, and apparently he was stupid enough to taunt them. It made sense. Dean had gotten on his bad side almost instantly. There was the run-in at the medical examiner’s office, where he must have been checking up on them. Hell, he’d even walked by the diner just when he and Sam were there. Oh, it had to be Shigaki all right, and they had to figure out how to kill the bastard. Soon.

“Flying idiot,” Dean said, unable to stop himself. “Gory mask must die slowly, all jump in the pool.”

“We should see if there’s a way to prove it’s really him,” Sam said as if Dean hadn’t spoken, already back at the computer, “before we go throwing him in the pool or whatever you want to do.”

As far as Dean was concerned, the only proof they’d need could be found by a two AM visit to Shigaki’s house, find his headless body and there they’d have it. Problem solved. They’d take care of it with a salt and burn and all the standard precautions. With no body, the head would be dead. It seemed very logical to him.

“To kill a _nukekubi_ we have to either keep its head from returning to the body before dawn, or destroy the body while the head’s out for a joy ride,” Sam said, reading from the site he was on.

Aha, just like he’d thought. Dean tried to show with a pat to his own back that he had beat Sam to that conclusion, but Sam wasn’t paying attention. Fine. He’d sit there and wait for his brother to do whatever, though he was ready to hop in the car and go. 

“With own eyes to see,” Dean said after a minute. Maybe he couldn’t wait. “We’ll know candlelight is fire, meal done long ago.”

He shrugged at Sam for the four hundredth time when his brother stared over at him. Christ, Dean didn’t even know what he was talking about half the time. He didn’t know why he’d mentioned candles and even if he did he couldn’t very well explain it to Sam. He wondered if this curse was progressing, and maybe it would start encroaching into his thoughts as well as speech. God, NO. Sam was still gawking at him. Dean pulled at his hair, the universal gesture for _I’m losing my mind, here_. What else was there for him to do? 

“You’re right,” Sam said, voice soft with understanding. Or maybe that was pity. “I just want to be sure of some things. What if killing the _nukekubi_ doesn’t break the curse and you’re stuck like that forever?”

That was an excellent point. Another half an hour wouldn’t kill him. Dean chewed on his lip and sat on Sam’s bed, jostling a leg nervously. He’d already taken apart and cleaned all their weapons yesterday. Twice. He stared at the mauve wall. He bit at a few hangnails. He scraped under his fingernails with the knife he kept under his pillow at night. Through it all, his soundtrack was the soft tap of Sam’s fingers as they flew across the keyboard and an occasional mutter. 

When Dean had exhausted all means of entertainment he could think of from his spot on the bed, he got to his feet and started pacing. He didn’t care if it would bother Sam. Ten rotations in, he noticed one of the books Sam had stolen from the library poking out of his bag. Reading was better than pacing. Dean grabbed the book and sprawled out on his bed. It was never a bad idea to have knowledge about Native American mythology, even if in this case it had nothing to do with anything. He flipped to a page Sam had dog-eared. He smiled and slipped the book under his pillow with the blade. Both were weapons.

“Okay,” Sam said with a sigh. “I can’t find anything linking the curse with a _nukekubi_ , so I think we’re going to have to take our chances. But I was able to track the Shigaki family a little. Want to guess when they moved to this area?”

Dean scowled and remained mum.

“Right. Sorry.” Sam ducked his head. “They moved here in 1945. Or maybe that was just when they were freed from the internment camp, and stuck around.”

Good enough for him. Dean figured it was nothing like the proof Sam would want, but there were too many other coincidental factors at work here for it to _not_ be Shigaki. He moved over to the table, peering at the stuff Sam had dug up.

“Some of the pictures are degraded, but Mr. Shigaki bears a remarkable resemblance to his grandfather, doesn’t he?” Sam asked, giving Dean a relieved little smile and turning the laptop so he could see better.

There was a crowd of people in the photo, all of them with Asian features. It was photographic history, the prisoners being released from a facility right outside Moab, Utah, according to the caption. And there he was. The hair was funky and grandpa had a goatee, but Dean thought the resemblance was more than passing. It looked like the same damned dude. He thwapped Sam on the arm and pointed for the door.

“You want to go now.” Sam’s eyebrows rose as he looked at his watch. “Dean, it’s twenty after two.”

“Proof in the pudding,” Dean said, gesturing to the laptop. “The mice have to play at night, when the cat is gone.”

The only regret Dean was going to have about this was that Shigaki’s smug face wasn’t going to be around to watch himself get wasted. In the grand scheme, he thought he could live very happily and haiku-free with that disappointment. 

“Hold up, I need to grab the address,” Sam grumbled. 

Dean barely paused, tugging his jacket on and heading out of the room. His blissfully uncursed brother caught up just as he was starting the Impala, almost getting his foot caught in the door as Dean backed up before he was fully in. Yeah, that was how much Dean wanted this thing dead and his tongue free to say such wonderful things as _I’d like the cherry pie_ or _Eat **that** , you son of a bitch_. 

“He lives at 1765 Mulberry Lane. Turn left onto Main.”

That was his geeky brother, as prepared as a Boy Scout. They rumbled through the mostly sleeping town at Sam’s direction until he pointed to a modest, newish house. Evil came in such normal-looking packages sometimes. Dean drove another two blocks before he parked, to put some distance between the car and the upcoming crime scene. There was no telling in a town like this who might see what. It’d be easier for them to sneak off into the dark than roar away.

“So, what do you think?” Sam looked vaguely ill. “I mean, this … body. It’s human, right? We’re supposed to just kill it? This is going to be weird.”

Weird and satisfying. Dean didn’t know what Sam’s deal was. This _nukekubi_ was a monster. It was killing people and it was doing so more and more often. He didn’t care how human this headless freak looked – there was nothing actually human about it. He hadn’t hesitated to shoot his shapeshifter self, he didn’t have any qualms about ending Shigaki since the form was only a construct and not a real man. He gave Sam a glower, pulled out his mother-of-pearl-handled Colt and waggled it. He wasn’t actually thinking they should shoot it – too noisy – but it got the point across better than poetry.

“Right. Not weird at all,” Sam said. “This is completely normal.”

He had one foot out of the car when it occurred to him that they didn’t have to destroy the body, just hide it so the head couldn’t find it. Shigaki was a smallish guy. They should have no problem stuffing the guy in the back seat if there was no resistance. Dean had no desire to attempt to relay that to Sam, so he hoped his brother would follow his lead once they were inside. By the sickened expression still on the kid’s face, he’d approve of letting the creature die a natural, unnatural death.

“I was thinking maybe we can grab the body and wait till dawn,” Sam said, as if reading his mind and sounding ten years old. “If the _nukebuki_ can’t find it, it’s over.”

Dean raised his thumb and nodded. God, it was so damned good to have his brother at his side that it hurt sometimes. To him, the fact that they could work together through haiku and high water meant this was right. They were in the right places. Together. He wouldn’t tell Sam that when he finally got his tongue back, though. That would be far too near chick-flick territory.

They inched closer to Shigaki’s house, seamlessly going from relaxed to all business. Dean stood lookout and crossed his fingers there was no alarm while Sam crouched to pick the front door lock. His brother was rusty - it took him fifteen seconds. No alarm sounded, but that didn’t mean much. He noticed a flashing green light emitting from a panel near the door. He bobbed his head at it to make sure Sam knew they were on a deadline.

They moved with fluid grace and speed, sweeping all the rooms on the main floor. There was no sign of Shigaki, but there was also no sign of anyone else living there. Dean hadn’t considered the creature might have a family. He shuddered. A whole litter of bodiless monsters would have fit right in with their luck. He and Sam headed up the stairs.

“There’s a TV on in that room,” Sam whispered, pointing to a cracked doorway with a bluish glow emitting from it. He looked puzzled. “Dean, why would…”

Dean ignored his brother. They didn’t have time to dick around in the hallway. The phone started ringing, probably the alarm company calling to check in with Shigaki. Too bad his head was off playing scare tactics with the general public - indisposed and about to be plain old disposed. Dean pushed the door open, right in time to see Shigaki sit up in his bed and fumble for the phone, a hand scrubbing down a very-there face on a very-there head. Holy shit on a cracker.

The TV turned off, engulfing the room in darkness. Thank fuck for quick-thinking Sam.

“Devils search redly,” Dean blurted, unable to stop himself. “Inconsequent heads strutting. Hallucination!” 

Shigaki shrieked.

Sam and Dean ran like bats out of hell.

&-&-&

Dean didn’t look up when Sam let himself back into the room.

“I got you a couple of hot dogs and some cheese fries. The chili looked inedible, though, sorry,” Sam said, giving his brother a tentative smile. He held up the take-out bag from Milt’s Stop & Eat. “And your choice - an Orange Whip or a banana shake to drink.”

Dean stared at him for a second before he got up, walked over for the food and banana milkshake and retreated to the bed again, all without even looking like he wanted to say thank you or anything. He opened the bag and peered into it.

Sam wished he had tempered his amusement a little – Dean had stopped talking to him for real after last night’s fiasco. Well, actually it was only after Sam had been unable to quit laughing about Dean shouting _hallucination!_ at poor, un-supernatural Mr. Shigaki that his brother had clammed up. Even now after he’d gotten some much-needed sleep, he still thought it was the most unintentionally funny thing that had come out of Dean’s mouth since the curse started. But it wasn’t funny because they were going on five hours of no talking, not including sleep time. He thought it would almost be better if Dean were simply gone than it was for him to be there and to not be speaking at all, or in unintelligible poems.

He didn’t mean that. 

Truthfully, the thought of being alone out here terrified him. Sam understood it more now, why Dean had come to Stanford to drag him back into this life. The more he got it, though, the more he wondered if he’d ever be able to go back to normal, knowing what it would cost his brother and what it would now cost him as well. These were things he had thought about only briefly when he’d run from Dad. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about them, and hating how they caused a pit in his stomach almost as cold as the one losing Jess had created. They both sat like lumps in his gut, a matched set.

Sam sighed, sitting down at the table. He poked at his own food, a wilted salad with grilled chicken. He could see gristle on some of the strips. The pits in his stomach rolled. He shoved the salad away, not very hungry after all. The Orange Whip shake was a minor balm. He shifted his gaze over to his brother, who was lounging on the bed and eating the cheese fries without much enthusiasm. Sam frowned as Dean set them aside, only half eaten, and took an uninterested bite out of a hot dog. 

Food was supposed to have been a peace offering, a way to help Dean stop being mad at him. Food was, for them or for Dean at least, one of the only common and normal things in their lives – every town had a greasy spoon. When Dean’s appetite and gusto for food was affected, it was bad. It was one of those indelible facts of life. So were his brother’s cutting remarks, which were a kind of release valve. Sam didn’t know how much longer this could go on. The silence was killing them both in different ways.

“So, the hospital wouldn’t give me anything,” Sam said, talking because not talking wasn’t an option. “Patient confidentiality. I know, don’t say it – it shouldn’t have stopped me. But I couldn’t even get in to see the guy, mostly because they have him locked up in the psych ward for his recovery. I wasn’t prepared for that.”

The stonewalling at the hospital hadn’t been a surprise. Sometimes they got lucky, and sometimes people actually did their jobs. He didn’t think it would have done him much good to pimp Walt Brosam, the injured project manager, for information anyway. None of the stupid kids remembered anything when they’d sobered up. One of them had sworn he’d seen a vampiric bowling ball with a closely cropped hair, which was imaginative, but not helpful. Judging from Mr. Brosam’s new temporary housing situation, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them anything useful either.

“Apparently being attacked by a carnivorous floating head will make you crazy, if you survive,” Sam said. “Who knew?”

Dean snorted, which was the closest he’d come to communicating with Sam for hours. It was a straw Sam had to grasp tightly. Maybe it meant Dean was almost done being angry with him. No number of solemn vows to not laugh ever again had worked. _Cheese fries_ hadn’t worked.

“I don’t get it, Dean. I don’t know where we went wrong. Shigaki made the most sense. He _still_ makes the most sense.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. Despite the sleep, he was tired again. It wasn’t easy operating alone, or with the weight of Dean’s silence pressing on him. “We must have overlooked something. We definitely jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

He was thinking it had been intentional, somehow - that the _nukekubi_ shoved Mr. Shigaki under the bus to save its own detachable neck. It was a classic misdirect, which he and Dean had fallen for hook, line and sinker. If that were true, though, why did it stick around and attack last night? Sam could rule out ignorance if he bought into the theory it had thrown them off track and distracted them with poetry, of all things. Arrogance. Stupidity. Well, he could rule out stupid as well. It couldn’t be that stupid, since they were stymied.

Something poked him on the shoulder. Opening his eyes, Sam found Dean standing at his side, the photocopied coroner’s reports in his hands. His brother shifted the laptop and Sam’s uneaten salad off to the side, spreading the pages out and pointing at each of them.

“What?” Sam asked. “We missed something in here?”

Dean touched the tip of his nose and nodded.

Sam frowned down at the files. He just didn’t see whatever it was Dean wanted him to see. He squinted as he looked more closely, still coming up with nothing they hadn’t already read or thought about. 

“Dean, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what you want me to see.” 

“Bald man has no hair,” Dean said, clearing his throat immediately and looking surprised at his own voice. “A comb is missing the teeth. _Official reports._ ”

Still confused, Sam started to read the reports, thinking he was supposed to find a key word or phrase or something. Then he actually tried to dissect Dean’s haiku. Markinson was balding, first line. Teeth were important in identifying what was killing people, second line. Third line, easy. It started to make sense to him. Real, honest-to-goodness sense. He looked up at Dean, who thumbed a knuckle against his right temple. The whole time Dean was being so quiet, he was outthinking Sam by leaps and bounds. He shouldn’t be surprised by that, but he kind of was.

“None of these reports mention anything at all about the bites being human,” Sam said. “That isn’t something a medical examiner would leave out. The police might not make it public, but it would be in there. Dean, this never even crossed my mind.”

It wasn’t hard proof. It wasn’t even soft proof. It was just an inconsistency that needed to be checked out, but something about it made Sam believe it was more than a simple hunch. Two of the three times they’d conveniently run into Mr. Shigaki, Markinson had also been there – outside the office and at Eddie McStiff’s restaurant (Dean’s choice, by the name alone). He couldn’t remember seeing him before that, but the coroner might have been anywhere they’d been. Small town. Familiar faces.

“Do you think it’s actually Markinson?”

Dean shrugged and waggled a hand in the air, which Sam took to mean _I don’t know, maybe_. But he knew his brother. Without the frustration of dealing with the haiku and Sam’s own inability not to laugh at him, Dean had the energy to focus his whole mind on this problem. It was more than a guess. That inclination was proved correct when Dean pulled the laptop back and called up a web page that had been in the cache from one of Sam’s earlier searches. A tab off of a local government site, a _Visit Moab!_ kind of deal. Photos spattered across it. Sam didn't remember what he'd been looking for, but now he looked where Dean pointed.

“Capture an image, a still life moment in time,” Dean said. He gestured to a candid photo, Markinson and several others around a picnic table at a recent police event. “A string of rubies?”

Sam squinted, looking for what Dean saw. The photo was small, but there was a red smudge poking out of Markinson’s collar. Anyone might assume it was a birthmark or a blemish on the photo itself. It wasn’t exactly damning evidence, but it was enough to make him curious.

“His head does kind of look like a bowling ball,” Sam said. He frowned. “He doesn’t really look Japanese, though.”

“A cup of coffee,” Dean said, then clenched his jaw as if trying to stop his thought from being voiced. As always, it was fruitless. “Is sometimes too strong to drink. Dilute it with cream.”

Sam pursed his lips. He had no idea where to go with that one, but it wasn’t a new feeling for him. He hadn’t meant to actually say it last night, but he really did want his normal, sarcastic, irritating brother back. The obscure sage wisdom of Haiku!Dean was still funny, but mostly it was alarming. And he was back to trying to make sense of the senseless, because he knew the senseless must actually make sense somehow. He was giving himself a headache.

“I…” Sam said, giving Dean a weak this-isn’t-funny-but-I-have-no-clue smile.

“A big melting pot.” Dean moved his hands like he was stirring, like that would make it so much clearer. “Mix blue and red for purple. Generation soup.”

“Oh.” Sam still didn’t … oh. “I think I get it. Back during the war anyone with a drop of Japanese in the blood was considered a threat. So, what if Markinson was only partially Japanese?”

Dean nodded, relief all over his face.

There was no way they were going to find what they needed from the internet. Sam wanted to find a list of names of all those interned at the Moab facility, as well as those who left it in 1945. He wanted to know when Markinson had gone from human to monster, if it was a flip-of-a-switch kind of change or gradual. The internment might have had a hand in it. Or worse, maybe Markinson had always been a monster pretending to be normal. He chewed at the inside of his lip. He knew he wouldn’t find the answers to those questions, or the details about a _nukekubi_ ’s origins. He probably wouldn’t even know if the new construction on that site had anything at all to do with the sudden increase in attacks. 

For now, Sam didn’t much care about the how and why. 

He pulled up the _Moab Times-Independent_ website, searching their online archives. His hunch proved good – Dr. Markinson was relatively new to the post of medical examiner. The doctor/monster had taken the job only a few months ago. A few keystrokes later, and Sam wasn’t surprised to learn Markinson had come to town just after Mayfair began its extensive building project. Their experience with Mr. Shigaki would dictate they should consider this a big coincidence.

He didn’t think it was. He had no proof, but he thought this thing had been buried, literally, for fifty years. Someone back then, a hunter, maybe, might have known Markinson (or whatever his name was) was a monster but didn’t know what to do with him and stuck him in a hole in the ground. 

“How’re we going to prove this?” Sam asked, mostly to himself. “If we go back to the coroner’s office to check for red symbols on his neck, he’s going to know that we figured him out.”

Dean pointed out the window. The sky was already darkening into dusk.

Sam blinked and glanced at his watch in surprise. They’d been poking around with this for longer than he’d thought. Nightfall meant the _nukekubi_ was about to start flying around. Now that someone had seen it and survived, Moab was going to turn into a hotbed for their own bodiless horseman urban legend. It didn’t matter if it originated from some stoner kids or a traumatized, possibly crazy man. Hell, the story would take hold because of where it came from. They couldn’t stop stupid people from wanting to check it out, but they could stop more people from getting hurt or killed by a very real monster.

“I suppose we could break into his house too,” Sam mused.

“Bandits practicing,” Dean said, nodding at Sam but scowling at his haiku. “Cannot be caught in the act, if they are prepared.”

“It’s worth a shot. If nothing else, we might find something in his house.” Something about how to nullify a haiku curse. “Do you think his head detaches as soon as the sun’s down, or later?”

Dean didn’t look like he cared a whole lot. He commandeered the laptop and searched for Markinson’s address, an action that was much easier to interpret than haiku. 

Sam hoped they weren’t in for a case of déjà vu by letting themselves into Markinson’s house. They were lucky that guy had apparently not seen or recognized them. But the risk wasn’t exactly why he was nervous about it. It was that he didn’t think he could take one more morning of waking up and finding his brother trapped in poetry. He was all for committing a crime at this point, if it meant Dean would be fixed. The old adage about fools rushing in crossed his mind, but he brushed it aside. If he and Dean were on the same page, they’d spend the next few hours staking out Markinson’s condo. They might even catch the floating, flesh-eating head in the act. He grimaced. Markinson was a lot bigger than Shigaki. Hiding the body from the head was going to be a chore, and not any less disturbing to think about than last night.

If any of this panned out. 

It took them five minutes to drive to the condo Markinson rented. The few minutes of Dean talking were apparently all Sam was going to get. They sat for hours, waiting for something to happen. He supposed it would be too much to ask to actually see the head flying out the kitchen window or doggie door or something. No, he took that back. If they saw the head, Dean might not be able to stop himself from shooting it with heavy artillery – probably the Desert Eagle, he didn’t think his brother was concerned about discretion anymore – and that could get messy. Sam did not want to spend the wee hours of the morning picking _nukekubi_ brains out of his hair.

By twelve-thirty, it seemed apparent they were going to sit all night. Markinson’s head might have already gone off for its nocturnal adventures before they had even pulled up. 

“The clock is ticking,” Dean said suddenly. “We cannot wait forever. Uncover the truth?”

“That’s what I was just thinking.”

They repeated last night’s action almost identically, though with extra caution. A condo was riskier than a house, Markinson’s neighbors nudged together tightly with shared walls. The last light had gone off at least half an hour earlier, but several homes still had the bluish light of TVs flickering in windows. Markinson’s condo was completely dark. It was also empty. Dean looked pissed, and Sam wasn’t exactly happy about the outcome either. He couldn’t help but wonder if Markinson had anticipated their move and hidden his body from them. Ironic.

“We might be wrong again,” Sam said as they hit the road, both of them discouraged. “If he’s not here, where could he be?”

“A man not at home,” Dean growled, driving the car past the motel. “Loves the night life, to boogie. Dead bodies on ice.”

The morgue, of course. It was the perfect place for a headless body to be without it looking out of place. Sam nodded, wishing he’d thought of it himself. A prickle of anticipation ghosted over his skin as they committed break-in number two for the evening. Once inside, they moved quickly to the exam room. In the dark, the morgue was creepy. Clean and clinical and full of shadows. There was a faint whistle, like wind through an open window or a vent pumping out cool air.

Sam inched toward the three positive temperature drawers, knowing one of them probably still held Ryan Dragt’s mutilated body. He cringed, opening the first one. Lucky him, he found an occupied chamber. He read the toe tag. 

“Dragt,” he whispered with a grimace, stating the obvious. 

Dean opened the far door, exposing an empty chamber. That left the middle one. They tensed and drew weapons, readying themselves for attack even though if they were right they’d only find an inanimate corpse. Dean counted up to three on his left hand, swinging the door open without flourish. Both of them aimed their handguns … into the vacant drawer.

“Dawn of discontent,” Dean said, slamming the door shut. “The vexation is massive. Markinson must die.”

“I could not agree more,” Sam said. 

Shot down again, they moved to the exit. Sam was on overdrive, trying to figure out where else this thing might have stashed itself for safekeeping. There were miles and miles of desert and national parks around them. The truth was this thing could be anywhere. The only option they might have left was to set a trap for it somehow. Lure it to them instead of fumbling around in search of it. Sam wasn’t sure he was going to stay sane enough to do that. He turned to Dean, who was dragging his feet for some reason. His own pending insanity, probably.

“Dean, we’re going to have to come up with a new game plan,” he said.

Dean glanced up, his expression dark. It changed in a flash, though, going from a scowl to wide-eyed alarm. He reached for the gun at the back of his waistband.

“A bird at midnight,” Dean shouted. “On a solitary path. Duck, duck, duck, duck, duck!”

Befuddled by the haiku, Sam’s reaction was slow. His brain processed the warning a second too late. He twisted, arms reactively up in a defensive posture as the ugliest vampiric bowling ball he had ever seen swooped at him with an inhuman yowl. 

&-&-&

Sam was still in the line of fire.

All Dean could do was watch as the _nukekubi_ aimed for his brother’s jugular, a bitter haiku aftertaste in his mouth. Jesus, the thing had huge teeth. Shooting was not an option as long as Sam was in the mix, but one way or another this thing was going to die tonight. He set his Colt down, wildly searching for something else to use. A muffled cry of pain from Sam spurred him on before he could grab anything. Screw it, he’d beat it to death with his bare hands. 

He rushed forward, throwing a punch that hit only air. The _nukekubi_ darted away, moving with unexpected speed. Of course this wasn’t going to be easy. It stopped howling, throwing silence over the morgue, and disappeared. He stayed alert, but made his primary focus Sam, who was hunched over slightly holding his left arm close to his gut. Dean tugged at Sam’s sleeve, looking for himself. Son of a bitch, that thing had gnawed through jacket and shirt.

“It’s okay, Dean. Barely a scratch,” Sam said. “Where’d it go?”

It was more than a scratch, but Dean let it slide for now. He lifted a finger to his lips, gesturing for quiet. He strained, but all he could hear was his and Sam’s ragged breathing, a faucet plinking a slow leak and … air. He turned toward the last sound, spotting an open window. He pointed before skirting carefully to it. He reached to shut the window, figuring he’d either lock the _nukekubi_ out or trap it in. Either way was a win. He latched it and hurried back to Sam. They crouched next to the refrigerated corpse drawers. 

“Do you think it’s still here?” Sam asked.

“Invisible risks,” Dean said, wishing he could rip his tongue out just to make it shut up. He was pretty sure it was his tongue that made Sam’s reaction slow before. “Sometimes bet on a bad hand. Know your opponent.”

Sam looked at him blankly. 

Dean stared back blankly. He knew what he meant, but he didn’t have it in him to try again. The haiku had to end. Now. He’d said it before, but this time he really meant it. He kept an eye on the surroundings as he looked for a towel. He supposed it wasn’t all bad – they had plenty of supplies here if they were in for a long standoff. He snagged one off a metal table, wrapping it around Sam’s bleeding arm. It was hard to do, because Sam kept moving. 

“Take this,” Sam said, handing him an odd looking, long instrument. “I figure guns are a last resort. Confined space.”

Sam himself held a long tool with a small circular blade on the end. Oh, gross. Dean recognized that one – it was the thing they cut into bone with. Still, better the _nukekubi_ than them. He nodded toward the door, then jerked his head sharply left and right, hoping Sam would figure it out. If they split up as they made for the exit, one of them might draw the flying head monster out into the open, presuming it was still in the building. 

Dean got four steps out when the silence was broken by another unearthly screech. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark mass moving toward him. Instinct and adrenaline took over. He pivoted, weapon up and swinging. He both heard and felt the impact, and the screech ended with a dull thump. The head went flying in the opposite direction, where Sam stood with weapon up and ready. The _nukekubi_ revived and changed course when it was about halfway to Sam. It zigged and zagged all around the room, crashing into cabinets and knocking things off shelves, howling all the while. In the chaos, he and Sam ended up back to back in the middle of the room.

They were sitting ducks, but Dean wasn’t worried, not with Sam at his back. This motherfucker might have baited them here like fools into a trap, but it was the one that wasn’t coming out of this fight alive. It screeched some more, a tactic that would work on regular people. It was piercing. But he and Sam were not regular people and it didn’t scare them. He lost sight of it in the dim light and bedlam until it circled at them again, its path growing closer and closer. Their swings met air. It was too damned quick. 

“Dean, the – ” Sam cut off with a grunt, listing to the right for a second as the _nukekubi_ dive-bombed him. 

Dean heard ripping cloth, the thing chewing on Sam’s arm again. He spun quickly, whipping the instrument he held, catching both the head and Sam’s arm with it. Shit. He heard Sam swear and duck away, still moving okay. The blow Dean had landed hadn’t done much, but it had distracted the _nukekubi_ from his brother. That meant he was now the focus, and he was okay with that. The thing rammed him before he could regain his stance, a vicious head-butt that had him seeing stars and hearing bells.

“Dean,” he heard Sam say faintly. “You okay?”

He shook his head to clear it, then quickly nodded. Dean had no idea fighting without being able to speak would be such a pain in the ass. 

“I’m going to draw it to one of the empty compartments,” Sam whispered, huffing out a breath as he swiped at the _nukekubi_ before it could smack into Dean again. “When I open the door, do you think you can hit it in?”

Sure. It’d be like golf. Or baseball. Or baseball golf, with a moving target that had gargantuan piranha teeth. Piece of cake. Dean snorted, giving a quick nod. He’d rather be the decoy, but he also knew Sam used to suck at sports when they were kids. Probably still did.

His brother didn’t waste any time, scurrying to the wall. The flaw in the plan, of course, was immediately apparent. The _nukekubi_ followed Sam and was therefore out of Dean’s batting range. His mind blanked, but he knew he had to do something. The thing was gunning for Sam’s throat again, and Sam was too focused on opening the door to even know it.

“Hey, fugly rabbit,” Dean yelled. “You belong in a hot stew! Pass the fork and spoon.”

Sam spun around and looked at him like he’d gone nuts (again), but the _nukekubi_ seemed enraged by the shout. It ignored the easy, gaping target that Sam was and zoomed at Dean instead. He barely saw Sam straighten and open the drawer, but it was all he needed. Dean smiled at the hideous face snarling at him, pointed to the proverbial outfield and swung. It was a hole in one. A homerun. A friggin’ grand slam. With the sound of a watermelon being split open, the _nukekubi_ splatted against the back of the drawer. And the crowd went wild. 

Before the monster head thing could roll its way out of the confined space, Sam shut the door and rested his head on the handle for a second. He flipped, pressing his back against the wall.

Dean raised his arms in victory.

Sam stared at him, blinked, and broke out into a wide grin. Then he ruined it all by starting to laugh, and not in the yay-success-we-survived kind of way but in the ha-ha-funny kind of way, gasping out, “P-pass the fork and sp-oon.” He slid down the wall as he laughed. He landed hard on the floor, which seemed to jar the laughs right out of him, but not the grin.

Thank goodness for small favors. Dean still had enough adrenaline coursing through him that he might have actually thrown a punch if Sam kept up with the hysterics. He was very tired of being laughed at.

“That was awesome, Dean,” Sam said. “Seriously, good thinking – pissing it off with a haiku insult.”

Okay, now Dean felt like a jerk for wanting to knock Sam’s block off. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t planned on saying anything in particular, it had worked. And, he admitted, it _was_ a little funny. Despite being sick to death of this fucking curse, Dean started to smile. He fought it, not wanting Sam to know he wasn’t pissed as hell. He failed miserably.

“It’s diminutive,” Dean said, cracking a full smile and pulling up a seat next to his brother. “Just a few powerful words: the mighty haiku.”

“Oh, man, you’re killing me again.” Sam’s smile grew, and he seemed on the verge of laughing again. “I can’t take it.”

The _nukekubi_ , as if it heard them and disapproved vehemently, screamed and thudded against the door of its prison so hard the handle rattled. It only made them look at each other and chuckle. The more they laughed, the more the monster head hit the door. The image of that bodiless wonder rolling around in there was somehow the funniest thing ever. They carried on for a few minutes, allowing themselves the reaction. Eventually the laughter died a natural death, and the morgue was relatively quiet again. 

“Do you think we should open the door and, uh, kill it?” Sam asked, looking squeamish.

As much as Dean would a) get some answers out of that head and b) make it explode, he was right there with Sam. It was way too likely they’d end up chasing the bastard down again or with bits and pieces splattered all over them. He wasn’t in the mood for a bloodbath. He shook his head. They could kill it by just waiting.

“Then I suppose we should stick around until sunrise to make sure it doesn’t get out.” Sam yawned. “We’ll have to clean up so no one knows we were here.”

Dean agreed, but instead of doing that he wanted to check out Sam’s wound. There was no telling what kind of nasty germs the _nukekubi_ had. Before he could, though, Sam scrambled to his feet and shuffled away. Standing, Dean’s head spun and started throbbing. Now that the action was over, the head-butt he’d gotten started to hurt. The loud screams coming from the _nukekubi_ weren’t helping. He prodded gently at his forehead as he followed after Sam, fingers tracing the outline of a large bump. Ouch. 

“Here,” Sam said, cracking open an extensive first aid kit and pulling out an instant ice pack. “That looks like it hurts.”

He wasn’t the one who’d been a midnight snack. 

“A ravenous man,” Dean said, pointing at his brother. “Shows no prudence about food. A chicken drumstick.”

“Did you just call me a chicken?” Sam’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t laugh. 

Dean took the ice pack, gingerly pressing it to his forehead. With his free hand, he rooted through the medical supplies himself, pulling out some antiseptic. He lifted it up, waggled it and pointed it at Sam’s arm. He expected an argument.

Sam only sighed, unwound the makeshift towel bandage and took off his jacket. He rolled up his sleeve and held his arm out like a martyr while Dean cleaned the ugly bite and found a wad of gauze to bandage it properly.

Once they were all put back together again, he and Sam started wiping down any surface they might have touched. It was a laborious job. During the chaos, they could have left evidence of themselves pretty much everywhere. On the plus side, it kept them occupied for a long while. The _nukekubi_ screamed on, though after an hour it had started to sound hoarse.

“God, I wish that thing would shut up,” Sam muttered, tossing his towel into a deep sink. He glanced at Dean. “Do you think the curse will lift once it’s dead?”

Dean couldn’t think anything else. There wasn’t any other option. All he knew was that if he was still spewing out haiku at sunrise, he was going to cross right over into batshit crazy. He nodded at Sam and climbed onto a cold metal table, pretending the last person to use it hadn’t been a corpse. Sam sat, leaning against the wall directly below the _nukekubi’s_ final resting place.

It was actually kind of horrible, listening to the screams as they dwindled and weakened. The thing never stopped, though, relentlessly beating itself into the unyielding door. He wished he could ask it a few questions. Like was the haiku just for kicks, or all about distracting them. Or maybe it had taken a supernatural fancy to sweet, sweet Candy and hadn’t like Dean putting the moves on her. No human words were coming from it, though, only raging screams. He supposed it didn’t matter, as long as the curse was broken when the thing finally died. 

Dean tried to tune the caterwauling out, staring at the ceiling for a while, then closing his eyes and dozing. Sleep was impossible, but it didn’t take long for him to hit that phase where his body could get some rest while he remained alert enough to spring into action if needed. The hours passed hazily, and quickly. Before he knew it, the room brightened with the rising sun, and the _nukekubi_ fell silent at last.

Two seconds later, Sam appeared above him, peering down at Dean with a hopeful, puppy-dog look on his face. “I think it’s over. Say something, Dean.”

Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to. He was worried that the monster was dead, but the curse was not. He swallowed and sat up, swinging his legs off the gurney and sliding off of it. He moved to the morgue drawer, opening it and double-checking the thing was out of commission for good. Met with a gruesome, bloody, unmoving head with a frozen snarl on its face, he closed the door again and wiped his prints off with a sleeve.

“Dean?”

Clearing his throat, Dean said, “Testing, testing. One, two, three.” It took a second to sink in, and then he followed up with a resounding, “Thank _fuck_.”

“It’s good to have you back, man,” Sam said, looking a little dewy-eyed.

“Dude, please. Control the waterworks. We’re not making this a candles, roses and mood-lighting moment, okay?” But of course Dean was secretly pleased by his brother’s reaction. 

“Wait, wait. I missed dealing with _this_?” Sam gave him a shove. “Bring back the haiku.”

“Don’t even joke about that, Sam,” Dean said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Sam didn’t utter any more smartass remarks. He just smiled, and kept on smiling the whole way back to the motel. They got there just as Audra, the front desk clerk with questionable taste in men, was getting off shift and heading for her car. She saw them and stopped. Sam’s smile apparently rendered her temporarily mute or something. She looked weak in the knees as she waved at them. 

Dean rolled his eyes and waved back. He was completely ignored.

“You boys out for a morning hike?” Audra asked, still only looking at Sam. 

“We sure were. We’re, uh, checking out today,” Sam said awkwardly. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Sam Winchester: Ladykiller.

“Oh, it’s been my pleasure. Trust me,” Audra said. “Have fun on the rest of your road trip. If you’re ever in this neck of the woods again, I hope you’ll remember me. Us. The Virginian.”

Oh, God. Sam was blushing. Audra the Implacable was blushing.

Dean mumbled a curse only he could hear and tromped up the stairs to their room, Sam straggling behind him slightly. His brother must be dazed by the female attention. It was adorable, really.

“I think we have time to clean up, maybe take a nap,” Dean said as they entered the room. He tossed the keys on the nightstand. “Wouldn’t want it to look like we were rushing out of town. Maybe you even have time to hook up with the old lady.”

“Dude, she’s not that old,” Sam said, blushing again. “But it’s like she’s always undressing me with her eyes. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“Right, uncomfortable. Is that what you kids are calling it these days?” Dean grinned lewdly. “In that case, it sounds like you need to hit the shower first.” 

Dean hoped he didn’t sound too obvious about the offer. He usually ran to get in before Sam could use all the hot water. Okay, mostly so he could use all the hot water and irritate Sam. His brother kept looking at him like he was making sure he was still there and speaking English. Dean almost felt bad for what was about to happen, but then he remembered how Sam had kept laughing at him these past few days. Turnabout was fair play.

“Thanks,” Sam said, apparently too tired to notice the change in MO. He draped his torn jacket over the back of a chair before rifling through his bag for fresher clothes. “I’ll be quick.”

Dean smiled as his brother shut the bathroom door. He lay down, hands clasped behind his head and waited for the fruits of his labor to come to bear. While Sam had been busy being _Encyclopedia Brown_ yesterday, he’d made a trip to a local printing shop with a certain book on Ute mythology. He heard the rustle of the shower curtain pulled back, then a yelp, scuttling footfalls and a thump against the wall. He turned as the door opened and the life-sized cardboard cutout he’d had made of _Siats_ the cannibalistic clown monster arced across the room. In two pieces.

“Dean,” Sam said with a definite growling undertone, glaring at him. “That is not funny.”

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean said, chuckling. “I don’t think you could be more wrong about that.”

Big brothers always got the last laugh.


End file.
